A solution for DDOS packet flooding attacks

This article summarizes a proposed solution to thwart DDOS attacks on the internet based on PEIP (Path Enhanced IP), an extension to the IP protocol.

On Friday, October 21, 2016, a major DDOS attack crippled access to major Web sites, including Amazon and Netflix.

PEIP and Fair Service are proposals by Don Cohen that may have been able to mitigate this attack. PEIP extends the IP protocol (the Internet Protocol, the basis of the internet) to provide information that allows determining the router-to-router path of packets sent over the internet. Currently, when an IP packet is received by a router, there is no information stored with the packet to indicate the sequence of routers the packet traversed on its way to the destination (DDOS target). This enables hackers to get away with setting up zombie processes on a multitude of hosts that send packets to attack a destination IP address by forging the source address and simply flooding the destination with those packets. Since the IP packets that arrive at the target host do not contain information about the actual sequence of routers that the packet traversed on its way to the targeted host and since the source IP address is forged, it is very difficult to determine which packets are real and which ones are part of the attack.

PEIP and Fair Service could be a game changer if adopted by enough ISPs and router manufacturers. Using PEIP, it becomes possible to determine, for each packet arriving at a target host being attacked, what path of routers was used to deliver the packet. It then becomes possible to thwart DDOS attacks not by denying packets but, rather, by ONLY allowing each incoming path of routers to receive their “fair share” of service. I.e., rather than attempting to figure out which packets are attack packets, which is not possible due to forged source IP addresses, instead, the solution is to allow in the forged packets but ONLY GIVE THEM A SMALL PERCENTAGE OF THE ALLOWED TRAFFIC ARRIVING AT THE TARGETED HOST. The idea is that packets arriving via routing paths that are not compromised by the attack will receive service. The attacking path still receives service but only a small fraction and no more than all of the uncompromised paths, rendering the DDOS attack ineffective in most cases. Hence the term Fair Service to describe this approach to DDOS mitigation.

Fair Service and PEIP are have been implemented in test networks and are described in detail in A Fair Service Approach to Defending Against Packet Flooding Attacks and Changing IP
to Eliminate Source Forgery
(proposals dates back to 2001).

I know Don Cohen and K. Narayanswamy personally and vouch for the veracity of what is claimed and documented in this paper. DDOS is a sufficiently important problem that an infrastructure-wide solution such as PEIP and Fair Service should be considered by Cisco and other router manufacturers and ISPs as a way to greatly lessen the threat of DDOS. Don and Swamy contacted Cisco (and some ISPs) over ten years ago to make them aware of this solution to the DDOS problem but, among other things, Cisco did not want to modify its routers, which would be necessary to properly implement PEIP. The recent DDOS attack of October 21, 2016 is a reminder that we still need to improve the infrastructure (if not via PEIP then in some way) in order to properly deal with DDOS. Don Cohen would still be happy to hear from Cisco, other router manufacturers and major ISPs to answer any questions they have as to why PEIP and Fair Service is a viable approach to mitigating DDOS attacks. Contacts: Don Cohen <don@isis.cs3-inc.com> and K. Narayanaswamy <swamy@cs3-inc.com>.

Dennis G. Allard
Santa Monica
October 22, 2016

Posted in Technology | 3 Comments

The Fat Lady & the Macaw

‘Squawwkkkkk!’

Terry, the owner, yelled, ‘SHUT-UP!’

Then her seven small dogs began yipping and yapping about her as she laid her 250 pound frame down upon her bed, panting.

The macaw shrieked on and on.

“Ah, shaddup!!!”

Turning to her new renter, who had just entered her bedroom which also served as her office, she announced, “Coca’s lonely! She wants to be part of the conversation. Just a minute, let me go get her.”

Terry pushed her bulky frame from the bed twice, the second bounce enough to get her standing but she stumbled and her new renter, Ted, looked wide-eyed, fearing the worst.

But Terry moved her oversized bulk down the hallway to the Macaw’s cage and removed Coca, carrying the large bird back into her room, and setting her up on a perch which Terry had centered in the space off the side of her bed. Meanwhile, several of the dogs continued to circle around her, avoiding her ponderous feet while simultaneously submissively seeking to lick them.

“There she goes,” Terry asserted. “Now, she will quiet down, I hope.” And Terry again plopped down on her bed.

The Macaw turned its head and eyed Ted carefully. Its beak strong enough to snap off fingers or seriously inflict injury,Terry’s dogs gave it wide berth or just scattered keeping a distance, the perpetually open screen door allowing for a quick exit . Coca had had her wings clipped and could’t fly, Terry claimed, and acted perfectly content on her perch in any case.

The seven mixed breed dogs and chihuahuas made sure they were on their best behavior around the Macaw. They occasionally looked up at the bird while walking to and fro….intimidated and nervous.

“How old is Coca,” Ted inquired if only to be social. He was actually thinking, ‘Oh Gawd, I wanna get out of here!’ He was wondering if it was a mistake to stay there at all. Still the rent was very low.

Five of the dogs kept coming around and licking his bare feet. And Ted just hated small dogs, repeating silently to himself,’Those fucking rat-dogs!’

But he had to sign a contract that Terry pulled out from her bureau. Ted had agreed to a six month contract although he never had kept any such commitment anywhere for this length of time if something better showed up. He always made up some pathetic story. Three times he had told different landlords, “My mother is dying. I need to return home.” And each time he got a deposit back if he had put one down.

Although he had to put down another deposit, he would gladly sacrifice this amount if need be for his own sanity. ‘Life is too short’ had always been his motto when confronted by uncomfortable or unwelcome situations. And he could easily forego the one month’s deposit of 4000 pesos a month’s rent, a mere $220 in American dollars.

For years Ted had been traveling in Mexico and Central America and while others found it a paradise, majestic or wonderful, he knew the real situation was quite different for someone who had to live inexpensively and had gotten to know the cultures which, like every country or place, had its positives and negatives.

For every foreigner who claimed that he or she just loved Mexico, there was another who had sallied forth to evade the law or an ex or some other personal responsibilities. Many were alcoholics or simply owed taxes to the government. Some were single and bored and ventured down to try to find a partner. Others got married and found some security in what Ted surmised was a rather vapid existence at least in his estimation.

Of course, it was the mundane existence he wanted to escape….surrounded by neurotic friends and family and besides he had no other choice….at his age.

“Coca is only five years old. She’s a baby!” Terry declared loudly. “Macaws can live a long time, maybe even up to 70 years.” She says this in a heavy crackling voice.

‘No kiddin’?” Ted acted surprised if only to be pleasant.

‘Shit, I’m 66 and I doubt I will make it to 70!” Terry blurted out. “I’ll be dead long before she gets that old!” she guffawed.

Meanwhile, Ted was thinking, “No shit.”

Terry then told Ted about her terrible accident while driving a truck in Oklahoma some seven years ago. The accident had broken her back and the doctor who had fused her spine had screwed it up even worse.

Terry had sued him and won a million dollar lawsuit. Then she had had four consecutive operations over a period of a year and the competent doctor was able to undo some of the damage and now Terry could walk, even if she ambled a bit like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, lumbering around the house, head bent over and often ejaculating mild curses when she stumbled over one of the cats or dogs.

A big part of the problem was that she had put on a lot of weight or so she claimed during the past six years. Her legs and arms just bulged with unevenly dispersed chunky fat. She was at least 100 pounds overweight.

God know how many times she had slipped or fallen as she refused to use a cane or walker, determined to deny that her injuries, obesity and gravity might have some influence. Like lots of people getting older, the denial of a use of a cane made her think that she was younger, no matter than she looked to be at least 75.

Ted had answered an ad on Craigslist for her granny house after her last tenants, two young Mexican males and their girlfriends had had to move out due to financial complications so Terry had related. Who knows? Maybe they had gotten really tired of the screeching macaw, the yapping dogs and…..the feral cats who Terry fed out of her pitying love for all of God’s critters.

Finally, Ted was ready to sign a contract giving him the little house for six months at 4000 pesos per month which included all furnishings and electricity, water, and even a large-screen TV. Terry even had a washer and dryer Ted could use as well as a small dipping pool to cool off in.

All in all, it was a fine deal. The only small flaw was that there was no cable or satellite hook-up for the television but the internet hook-up was very good which allowed Ted to do business online as an editor which required significant skyping each month with various publishers in the U.S. in addition to old friends, ex-wives & girlfriends, and four children who were now grown and living in three different states.

The little house consisted of a decent sized living room and desk, an antique couch which was uncomfortable but which Terry kept because she had grown up with it…she had had it restored but the Mexicans did a bad job and besides….termites were eating away at the wood, unbeknownst to Terry. The huge chair on rollers which Terry had offered Ted had its leather peeling off and its bulk made it none too suitable for Ted who suffered from lower back issues himself. But Ted was used to suffering minor inconveniences as he had endured much of his life.

The kitchen had a fridge and an ancient stove with a gas leak which meant one had to keep the gas valve turned off until one used it. The knobs which turned the gas on the burners were squishy to turn and hard to regulate, the result of which was that Ted rarely used it. He had suggested to Terry that she buy a new one….but she had testily spouted off in her husky way: “Well, the past tenants used it and they never complained!”

Ted again refrained from a response but thought, ‘Did you ever think that this might be one more reason they left….La Gorda?’

Regarding the eclectic group of feral cats which milled around outside of Ted’s front door which let to the carport, they were skittish….even paranoid, and often fought one another for the scraps of food which Terry tossed on the ground in the mornings and evenings, only to draw the ants and during the night, cockroaches in a midnight feast.

During the night, the caterwauling of vying males looking for a mate often presented other problems to tenants who were trying to sleep. But this was Mexico where noise was to be tolerated if only because complaining did no good and Terry fit right in with her attitude of, ‘If you don’t fucking like it, then don’t rent the goddamn place!’ She actually told Ted she had used those exact words with past tenants.

Of course, her renters, like Ted, didn’t know what the were in for when they signed the contract. Like Ted, they probably had liked the small house which was separated by some ten yards or so from Terry’s bedroom, visually blocked by a gigantic aviary she had had built for some other Macaws she once owned but gotten rid of since they had made such an obnoxious acket that even the most tolerant of renters soon departed.

The oldest of the feral bunch of cats was a scrawny but tough, black alley-type cat, one ear permanently bent, with scars and injuries which had left him slightly lame. Often-times, in the morning, one could see blood as evidence of his latest fight.

Terry called him ‘Pops’. Over time, Ted was to gain some trust and Pops let him get pretty close. Normally, Ted wouldn’t feed the cats but he eventually was to feel sorry for Pops who appeared to be both partially blind and deaf and Ted would throw some bits of cheese his way but only rarely.

In fact, there must have been something special about Pops because three or four cats of varying ages would all sleep around him. Perhaps, he was their father or grandfather or great grandfather. He seemed to tolerate it quite well.

Regarding noise, generally speaking, Mexicans do not complain. They have learned to endure killings, tortures, threats, slavery, and beatings for some five hundred years…most of the population is mixed blood or mestizo and one of the truly amazing things is how little Mexicans complain about all sorts of things. They are accepting of nearly everything including mass corruption at every level and have no expectations that things will ever really change.

Occasionally, there have been Indian rebellions and student protests but really nothing ever changes even though the country goes through the charade of elections but there has never been one honest one and no one believes the results except for the one time the PRI party lost…its one and only time.

Everyone in Mexico knew the cartels ruled and bribed government officials or just threatened them and often carried out brazen murders. Journalists, lawyers, judges….were not safe. All police accepted bribes as is done in many countries of the world. All the politicians were corrupt as hell with few exceptions.

Ted had been living in Mexico some for some four years spending some stints in Nicaragua and Costa Rica as well. After deciding he had had enough of the United States and his mundane lifestyle, coming to Mexico was based on several factors: pure boredom and the high cost of living in the U.S. along with the inability to get a job due to his age. This was after the 2007-2008 near financial collapse and the consequent great recession.

Ted had decided on Mexico, and over the years had lived in several cities as well as having visited quite a few others, trying to find the right match for his tastes. And Merida had seemed to be a decent place even if it was too hot during the summer. For Ted, that was better than the high plateaus of Mexico where the winters were cold and the apartments devoid of any heat. Besides, Yucatan was considered the safest state.

Mexico city was out of the question due to the severe smog and even Guadalajara, Mexico’s second largest city had proved too polluted and congested for Ted. And, of course, many of the northern states and Pacific and Atlantic states had to be avoided due to the dangers inherent there with a dozen cartels exercising virtual sovereignty in those areas.

By now, Ted had heard too many stories of gun battles waged on public streets, abductions, and worse although, generally speaking, tourists were safe unless some stray bullet just happen to hit some unfortunate gringo.

Ted had been offered a job in Tampico but had refused because just several months earlier a gun battle broke out between opposing Cartels downtown. The principal of the school which needed a teacher kept this knowledge from Ted when they had interviewed but the story was on the internet.

Even in San Luis Potosi, a decent city where Ted had lived for a year and a half…he had heard all kinds of stories about cartel influence. Prior to his arrival, the bodies of four men had been hung from one of the bridges by one cartel as a warning to others of the consequences of challenging their authority.

Ultimately, Ted had chosen Merida which had appeared more suitable what with its Mayan history, cenotes and the fair number of foreigners that lived about. Ted’s Spanish was pretty basic and he needed some familiarity and so sought out English speaking types and there was a small community in Merida.

“So, you just need to sign here but you can read the contract if you want. It is just standard stuff,” Terry uttered. “The same old bullshit!”

Terry had a truck-driver’s mouth and added, “Hope you don’t mind my swearing.”

“Fuck no,” Ted chimed in. Terry laughed. Then he added, ‘Coca really has a loud shriek, eh?”

“Oh God, yes! Sometimes I have to close my bedroom door when she is in her other cage if I am on my computer talking to my daughter.”

“Have you ever thought of barbecuing her?” Ted had spoken facetiously. Women with truck-driver mouths typically liked this kind of humor, Ted supposed.

Terry had chuckled at that blurted, “Don’t think that I haven’t thought about that before!”

Ted had nodded his head and observed Terry who was sitting a bit awkwardly on her bed, two of dogs now joining her, one hiding his head under some rumpled blankets.

Terry had lived here in Merida some six years herself. She owned her home and property and had tried to sell it after four years but like lots of Americans who have come here, she could not find a buyer.

She had bought the home and fixed it up but after deciding to return to the U.S., she was unable to recover her investment even after she had reduced the price several times, She figured she would just remain in Merida until she died.

And from the looks of her…it could be any day.

“”I had stroke last year,’ she admits. And now “My damn blood pressure is causing me problems. I went to the doctor yesterday and he told me it was up to 200 over 150. Shit, I could have another stroke or heart-attack.

She continued, “And I don’t get along with my mother or most of my kids. So, fuck ‘em! I don’t need them!” she adamantly declared.

She told Ted that the doctor had given her some medication for her blood pressure but it made her tired. She also kept unusual hours, working a bit for some extra money, beginning at 4 a.m., early enough to talk with clients in Asia where the time difference was 14 hours.

The nature of her work was a mystery to Ted who hadn’t inquired, figuring that the less he knew, the less she would bother him.

So, the bottom line was that Ted could live on less than $500 or $600 per month and that included everything. Well worth it since he had just recently been paying some $500 just to rent an nice apartment near the central part of the city. It had been convenient and comfortable but just too expensive for Ted’s frugal budget.

Just before Ted had moved all his stuff in, the day before, Terry announced, “I slipped and fell and hit my head.”

“Wow. Really?” Ted had asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, well, I think so, “ Terry had responded. “But my back hurts.”

The next couple weeks, Ted had worked during the morning and early afternoon hours…establishing a routine of a late lunch, a nap, and then a long walk. He later discovered a gym nearby, had joined and began swimming three times per week.

Generally, his life was uneventful. His social life consisted of visiting the local English library which had been established some years ago. In fact, the library had inherited a collection of books from many Americans and Canadians who had lived and then left the area. And it was a social, cultural hub for foreigners as well.

So, every Friday, Ted dropped by and that’s where he met some acquaintances with whom he began eating breakfast on Fridays. Then, on Saturdays, he would visit the so-called Slow-Food Market where vendors sold healthier foods, homemade, mostly organic, everything from breads and cheese to prepared food, fruits, veggies, pickles, and much more.

It was here that Ted met quite a few women, Canadian, America, German a few of which he had dated but most were stand-offish except for one American woman whom he took to dinner and got drunk and then went to her house and spent the night. As it turns out, she was embarrassed by the whole incident and couldn’t remember a lot. So, the next date…she announced that it was only a one-time fling.

That was okay as far as Ted was concerned. One night stands were fine, uncomplicated, and not messy.

Af few months earlier, on a week’s vacation to Valladolid and Tulum, Ted had visited a spectacular swimming hole known as a cenote midway between between two coastal towns of Tulum and Playa del Carmen. There were hundreds if not thousands of cenotes in the Yucatan peninsula and they were a major attraction for tourists which came in droves to see Cancun, the Caribbean beaches, the famous Mayan ruins such as Chichen Itza and others.

So, on this particular day, Ted had enjoyed a perfect day at this cenote and then caught a collectivo van ride back to Tulum where he was staying for a few nights. Tulum had become the new hot spot for young tourists especially and had a hip quality to it now.

The van had picked up various people along the highway and dropped off others. At one stop, a younger Mexican woman got aboard and took a seat directly opposite Ted who sat in the back of the bus. They literally faced each other as her seat faced the back window where Ted was seated. For a few moments they stared at each other….and exchanged smiles.

After a few stops, with people exiting and getting on, the woman found seat right next to Ted but neither said anything. A few minutes later, the woman laid her her down on Ted’s shoulder as if she was napping but Ted realized this was all a ruse on her part.

By the time they reached Tulum, Ted moved to get out and the woman tagged along. At this point, Ted had to pay his fare and then looked at the driver and said, “Y ella tambien,” indicating that he would pay for her fare also.

They got off and Ted looked at the woman, “Como se llama?”

“Dujani,” she replied.

“Well, ven comigo,” Ted said.

“Te quiero,” she responded.

Ted looked at her, smiled and took her hand. They didn’t exchange another word until Ted got her upstairs the apartment he had rented. They quickly began making out and disrobed and got into the bed after Ted put on the AC. The love-making was slow and sweet and Ted quietly practiced some of his Spanish.

After a couple hours in bed including a nap, they woke up, showered together and enjoyed each other a third time while standing. Next, they got dressed and went out to get something to eat. After a typical Mexican meal and some quiet talk in Spanish….Dujani said that she had to go home.

Ted asked her where ‘home’ was and she indicated further south but did not say exactly where. Ted paid for a taxi to take her home, kissed her and she left, knowing she would probably never see him again. Ted didn’t know what to expect and was tempted to ask if she was married but didn’t.

One-night stands just seemed to be all to common for Ted who had labored through three unsuccessful relationships in the states. And in Mexico, he attracted not a few women. But nowadays, he preferred his privacy and living with a woman just was not worth the inconveniences at his age.

So, now, he dug his bachelor pad. That was until the squawking Coca wouldn’t shut up. Each morning, Ted was awakened by the screeching and then the dogs would join in, yapping and finally, he would hear Terry yell, “Shut up!” or even a litany of her fouled mouth cursing. Sometimes, it was the cat fights right next to his window which he had to leave open at night to get some air in the room since there was no air conditioner in that room.

It had been removed since Terry’s electric bill was quite high and she did not wish to encourage tenants to use it during the night and figuring that the low cost would be enough incentive to keep them there. Ted had bought a powerful high speed fan and kept it blasting during the night while he put in earplugs and took some medication to assure that nothing would disturb his sleep.

He endured all the animals and the perpetual drumming across the street issuing forth from a house that had been turned into a music center. But, that was during the day and at least Ted slept well and used headphones while talking on skype.The noises were not consistent enough to really drive him off. After all, if you lived in Mexico….you had to get used to noise.

This was nothing compared to the first place Ted had lived, a posada in Guadalajara where all the boarders were Mexicans and noise was the order of the day, and night for that matter. Buses whizzed by the busy street off which the posada was located. Cars were honking their horns during the day and during the night, and car alarms went off constantly, an index of the car theft problem in Mexico.

But the worst of the noise came from trabajadores….working men who sometimes resided at the posada while on a specific labor assignment during the days. Then, at night, beginning at 10 pm…they drank, played cards boisterously, laughing, shouting, and cursing each other in typical Mexican fashion.

So, Ted was used to noise and he had learned to make the best of it.

That is until one day, he heard Terry cursing, “God-damn, motherfuck! Shit!”
And then a bunch of mumbling, more cursing and such.

Later, Ted found out that Terry had discovered she had broken her back in two places once again and was trying to get some pain killers since her prescriptions were not sufficient to the task of masking her apparent suffering.

She also announced that she had to return to Oklahoma to get another operation in August and informed Ted that she would only be gone a week because she did not want to be away from her animals any longer.

When August arrived, she caught a plane and had her Mexican maid live in her house until her anticipated return. Weeks went by and the Mexican maid finally came to Ted’s door, crying, telling him that Terry had died while being operated on. Ted had figured that this might occur as he had had a friend who had died on the operating table a few years before he had come to Mexico. And Terry’s health had seemed worse.

The maid asked Ted in Spanish which he could barely comprehend something about all the animals and who would take care of them. Ted was a nice guy and all but he certainly wasn’t going to hang around and deal with the situation.

The next morning….there was no sign of the maid.

“Shit,’ Ted thought. ‘I gotta get out of here fast.’

The thought of living there by himself while Terry’s friends and family tried to sort out everything including her animals was just too much. But before he left….he opened Coca’s cage and using a stick…which she perched on rather eagerly, took her out and put her outside in the gigantic aviary but left the door open.

Ted figured the damn bird deserved better than being cooped up in a cage the rest of his life and so he was determined to liberate it. He hung outside for a hour waiting to see if the bird actually was capable of flying. After a half hour, the macaw finally flapped its wings and flew higher into some trees surrounding the property.

Next, he finished packing and called a taxi to take him to a nearby hotel until he could find a new place to live. On the way out….he passed Pops who appeared to be on his last legs. Normally, the old cat would at least turn to look at him but it appeared it was his time to go as well. Ted bent down to pet him and Pops just laid there.

By the time the taxi arrived, Pops was dead. And Ted thought of all the transitions that had taken place with Terry dying, Coca’s having been set free and Pops dying. Then he reviewed all the transitions he had been through in his life, having moved dozens of time….in fact…as many as 40.

He remembered that the famous Greek philosopher, Heraclitus had been correct when he spoke of the essence of the universe as change.

“The only permanent thing in life is change’, Heraclitus maintained.The paradox of that fundamental bit of wisdom had always impressed Ted.

He got into the taxi and told the driver where he wanted to go….a pleasant hotel where he could enjoy himself for a few days and hopefully escape all the noise. He felt he deserved a break. When he got to the hotel, he paid for a room, put down his suitcase and backpack, then laid on the bed.

Suddenly, he heard church bells ringing loudly and realized that there was a church behind the hotel….and thought, “Oh shit. Here we go again.”

He laid his head back down and thought how one of the lessons of life was acceptance….the recognition that reality is what it is and sometimes you just can’t change things even if you try.

Change may be the only permanent thing but some things never seem to change…especially in Mexico. Ted smiled, and listened to the tolling bells and then they stopped. Soon, he had fallen into a deep slumber, dreaming of wild parrots and barking chihuahuas.

Posted in Poetry and Stories, World | Leave a comment

Supreme court continues evil immigration policy

Hard working immigrants had hope that parents who are undocumented but who have children born in the United States would be able to receive a permit to work lawfully and a social security number and officially contribute to the economy just as they now do unofficially and often in fear of deportation.

In the Nineteenth century the Supreme Court would rule against native Americans because those savages did not make productive use of the land so allowed the white man to take that land away from those who had so long honored it.

In 1997, President Bill Clinton made a “compromise” deal to get NAFTA passed by drastically modifying immigration policy to make it much harder for undocumented workers to obtain a path to citizenship, requiring them to demonstrate “extreme hardship” in order to legally stay in this country. It is not considered extreme hardship to force a father or mother to be removed from their children or force the children to leave the only country they have known and go to a distant land where hardship is what prompted their parents to come to the United States to begin with.

So this Supreme Court is just following in that long march of those who dominate over those who often do the hardest and least paid work in our economy. Shame on the Supreme Court justices who voted to once again stymie human progress.

An article at Politico covers the story in some detail

Dennis G. Allard
Santa Monica, CA
June 23, 2016

Posted in Left, Vents | Leave a comment

8. My brother still believes he was victimized by mind control

Chapter 8 in a series on mental illness.

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After my brother was released from the California Department of Corrections back to free society, I asked the question Is my brother cured of mental illness?

That question is naive and simplistic. And, as you can see for yourself from my brother’s own post here in this blog Am I Really Mentally Ill? , he is as convinced as ever that he was subject to mind control by nefarious forces operated by Masons, he remains anti-jewish, and his beliefs that certain scientifically impossible phenomenon are possible (such as beaming thoughts into his brain or reading his thoughts) remain an entrenched part of his belief system.

So, I am letting him have that last word in these pages. You may judge for yourself if “cure” applies to my bother.

UPDATE of June 5, 2016: Unfortunately, a few days ago I got a call from my other brother saying that the police had taken my brother to a medical center for psychiatric observation, a 72 hour hold which has since been changed to be a two week hold. I don’t know the details. It appears my brother has decompensated or is in the process of so doing. I will not continue chronicling my brother’s history any more. If he manages to regain stability I will ask him to write another post in this blog at some time in the future.

Up until a few weeks ago, my brother was doing pretty good. He had made it through a six month program at a half-way house and had been renting a room at a fairly low rent that he could afford. He seemed stable and was not going around threatening people or damaging property, so that’s all good. But then he decided to leave his room rental situation and move to a hotel room in Hollywood and now I get this call from our other brother that Tony has been taken if again. Oh my.

I am at a point in my life where even for my own brother I prefer to distance myself from spending time with people who have egregiously irrational prejudices against jews and who believe in nefarious forces governing the world with simplistic explanations such as masonic cults. I will try to be there for my brother as a friend when I can be.

But, using my prerogative as editor and publisher of these pages, for now at least, this will be the last post in this section of the OP Column on the subject of Mental Health. I am making the editorial decision to provide my brother with his last word on this subject but not to enable these pages to become a forum for vitriolic ravings against jews, masons, mind control conspiracies, etc.

If Tony chooses to make such posts on some other blog site I will provide a link here to that site.

If a time comes where my brother Tony is amenable to republishing an edited version of our original YouTube interview and doing a follow up conversation with me, both of those videos will be published here.

I hope some of the writing here by both me and by my brother are instructive for those who have relatives who have these kinds of thoughts.

Thanks for reading.

Dennis G. Allard
Santa Monica
May 12, 2016

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Am I Really Mentally Ill?

Hello, my name is Tony and I’m not anybody’s Schizophrenic brother.  I was initially diagnosed as such in the mid-1980’s, but have had 4 or 5 different diagnoses since.  Personally, I believe I am a victim of what was a prolonged and persistent mind-control agenda by the Zionist and Free Masonic cults.  Oh, another one of those, eh?  I will be adding to this file as time permits me to and you will be able to decide for yourself if I really am Mentally Ill.  I will describe here my perception of historical events which occurred.  My tendency in the past before I was ever diagnosed as “Mentally Ill” by a Licensed Psychiatrist, until about 1986 or so, was to try to fit reality into neat conceptual boxes, (“Christian”, “Communist”, etc.), and to explain reality to myself using such “readymade” models which provided some mental comfort to me.  However, starting around 1986 I started having real problems facing reality and my life basically “fell apart”.  I sought help, both voluntarily and because of social coercion of my family and friends, (or you can call it persuasion I suppose if that sounds more “caring”), in yet another conceptual model called “Psychiatry”.  That has been a total wash.  No help what-so-ever.  It only augmented my self-doubts and the (ever changing prescribed) medications they at first prescribed and I took voluntarily, and then in a dozen instances was forced to take or injected with by the County or State Authorities further deteriorated my sense of well-being and personal self worth.  At that point, despite the fact I believed that I was under a constant barrage of psychic attack by those just referenced Satanic Cults’ practitioners, I came to agree with my Doctors and intimates that I had an actual physiological mental defect.  I have been trying to understand what happened in the ensuing 25 years, with a much clearer perspective, for the last 5 years.  I have come to certain conclusions to explain my past and current mental states, which have invariably lead many people to dismiss my accounts, and myself, as delusional.

For a hypothetical yet actual example that happened to me, if you tell an NSA (ie. NIH) Psychological Operative, “Psyop”, (take California State Forensic Psychologist Brandy Matthews at Atascadero State (Psychiatric) Hospital for instance), that you are the victim of NSA and CIA experimentations, and that you believe that you are a Special Agent for the FBI, she will always misrepresent your statements and write down something to the effect that you believe you are a CIA Agent being persecuted by the FBI.  That just a joke.  Seriously though, I’m not joking.  The connections I’ve made between disparate events that I have observed in my life and my explanations for their causes have in many cases changed from year to year.  But that is because as I get new information I have to try to be flexible and adjust my “conspiracy theory”.  If I knew all the facts about the Robert Kennedy murder then maybe I would know why I’m supposed to vote for Bernie Sanders for President now 50 fucked-up years later.  But I don’t and I won’t.  As far as my delusion that I was an undercover FBI Agent, that was the result of a couple of clandestine conversations I had with a couple of individuals back in 1985 and it is now apparent to me that even if I was being recruited to be such an Agent back then, I cannot possibly actually be one now because since 2003 I have become a twice Convicted Felon.  The FBI does not employ Felons and I have never received a cent from the FBI for any services, so I am not only not a Special Agent, undercover or otherwise, I am not an Informant either.

I have lived an active life in Los Angeles for those 50 years and worked in and around the Motion Picture Industry for 20 of them, mostly for my older brother Eric Allard’s All Effects Company in the San Fernando Valley.  I was a participant in the early LA “Punk Rock” scene as a video artist from 1978 (to 1987), and I have some stories about events in both my professional and personal lives, which I will relate to you, that affected my personal development and reflect on my current understanding of the world and my place in it.  Some of you reading this may have known me, or of me, and maybe I can help your own understanding of seemingly inexplicable events in your own life.  Frankly, along with clarifying my own understanding, helping others better understand themselves and others better is one of my primary goals in spending time writing this stuff down.  Maybe you will know something that I would like to know and you can email me and tell me something I don’t know.  I can always use new information.  I have my B.A. from UCLA in Communication Studies in the Mass Media from UCLA, 1981, with a Minor in Interpersonal Communication.  I also studied color video production there under the tutelage of NYC transplanted “Neorealist” Filmmaker, Modern Dancer, and early 60’s Pop Art/Chelsea Hotel/Warhol Factory Scenester Shirley Clarke, and made about 10 short video art pieces which included a number of alternative music videos, mostly before that advent of digital video and even MTV.   All of that was before my emotional and legal troubles started to seriously interfere with my economic and ability to function socially in society.  I have been interned in Jails, Prisons, and State Psychiatric Hospitals for 11 ½ years out of the past 15, on various small crimes and a couple of Felony Criminal Threats Convictions.  I also had numerous Psychiatric detentions throughout the past 30 years prior to and during that period, not really directly related to any specific crimes but because of questionable behavior and non-criminal actions that local police and Psychiatric Emergency Teams ruled merited Psychiatric observation.  Unfortunately, because of my brash reactions to efforts of the Free Masons and Jews to direct my behavior, and my resistance to their directives and also because my inability to break out of long standing alcohol and drug (marijuana) use which I started at age 13, as well as a gambling addiction I acquired as an inappropriate response to my psychological difficulties and as an effort to “escape reality”, I’ve wasted many years staring at Prison, Jail, and Mental Hospital walls and being heavily drugged both voluntarily and involuntarily on legal and illegal drugs and prescription medications.  I did manage to accomplish quite a bit in spite of being incarcerated for most of the past decade and a half and treated basically like a grade school student by Psychiatrists and Social Workers.  But what can you do?  As any Convict and ex-Convict will tell you, eventually I came to the conclusion: “If you’re willing to do the crime, be willing to do the time”.  I did and I did.

So what’s the deal with Psychiatrists, Psychologists, Social Workers, etc.?  In short, “Mental Health Professionals”?  They want to “help” people?  In the past 29 years, I have been diagnosed with 5 different “Mental Illnesses” and been prescribed over 30 different Psychiatric drugs.  I do not believe that I am “Psychotic”, as many Psychiatric Doctors who have interviewed me in the past 29 years have contended.  I have certainly acted that way a number of times.  But I don’t want to get into a discussion of “Nature vs. Nurture”, which is to say the physiological versus the environmental “causes” for psychotic behavior.  All I can say is that I believe my psychotic reactions were primarily “drug induced”, in combination with other psycho-social forces, and that I can only take partial “responsibility” for my so-called “Crimes”.  The fact is, other than engendering fear through verbal assaults on some individuals, perhaps, whom I know to be actual political enemies of mine, and in a few instances doing a few thousand dollars worth of property damage, I am not really a Criminal.  I certainly have never done anything that has left permanent physical damage on the bodies of any of those enemies, whereas, I have been attacked a number of times and I do have permanent scars, missing teeth, and bitter memories of physical pain that took months to heal in some cases.

Talking about Psychiatrist and their motives here’s some irony, if you want to call it that.  I first met a Dr. Schneider when I was incarcerated in TTCF fighting my 1st Strike Terrorist Threats charge in 2002, brought against me by a “Sex Therapist” and phone sex service operator Susan Block.  Dr. Schneider, who was assigned my case as my attending LA County Jail Psychiatrist in late 2002, spoke with me on probably 3 or 4 occasions during that internment.  He spoke English with such a strong accent, which I thought was Russian, that I could barely understand what he was saying, during my Psychiatric Interviews with him.  I recall saying to him one day just that, that I could barely understand him, and I asked him why he was practicing Psychiatry in Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department’s Twin Tower Correctional Facility in the United States.  His response was, “That’s a good question.”  But he didn’t elaborate and I didn’t question his National origin at that time.  Jump forward to 2010 to an “ICC” (Institutional Classification Committee) meeting in Los Angeles County Prison (“Lancaster Prison” in the State’s CDCR, not the County Jail mind you), where I had to face Dr. Schneider again.  I had been placed in what is called the “SHU” (Segregated Housing Unit”) in Lancaster for having chased down the tier and in the yard a young homosexual and known member of the “GBG” gang, (“Gay Boy Gangsters”), who had been harassing me.  I was still in the SHU after 3 months of solitary confinement, and the ICC was to determine if I could be reintegrated into the general population, (not on “the Main Line” but at least within the general population of a Mentally Ill Housing Unit and with a cellie).  Oddly enough, such ICC’s are generally attended by about 8 Prison officials, including a sub-Warden or Warden, a Lieutenant and/or Sergeant, your Psychiatrist and Social Worker/Clinician, a Nurse, and a couple of Correctional Officers for security, but for reasons unknown to me there were about 30 people at this one.  Seriously bizarre and unusual.  I recognized Schnieder immediately upon being led into the room and was surprised to see him there since he was not my State Shrink and I had not seen him since years before in County.  In waist chains I was led to my seat in front of my initial questioner, a ranking Forensic Psychologist as I recall now.  I don’t remember the ICC Facilitators name, but he was obviously Jewish and he started to question me.  (I did not ask him if he was a Free Mason, (part of my sentence was the result of threatening to have a Free Mason, Steven Mikulan (past Theater Writer and long time Theater Editor for the LA Weekly free newspaper and former associate of mine) and his wife Sandra Ross, killed if they testified in Court on Felony Vandalism Charges I had incurred by scratching her car with a pocket knife).  I did however, ask this guy who was about to start the ICC inquisition if he was Jewish.  He refused to answer my question saying that it was his “prerogative” not to answer.  I asked him what that meant, and he replied that it meant that it was his choice to answer or not, and he refused to do so.  I didn’t argue at that point and answered his questions that followed though I don’t recall now what else he asked me.  Next, I was questioned by the at that point I had just discovered now California State Psychiatrist Dr. Schneider.  I didn’t ask him if he was Jewish or how he got his job in a State Prison, an apparent upward move from the County Jail I thought, but I asked him if he remembered me from about 8 years previously.  He denied remembering our Twin Towers relationship.  I then asked him again about his accent, saying: “It’s odd that you speak with a Russian accent but you have a German name.  Are you Russian?”  He didn’t exercise his prerogative and answered, “No, I’m Jewish.”  He then went on to tell the Committee that I was indeed still Mentally Ill, if I recall correctly, and as a result I had to spend a couple of more months in the SHU until I was sent out to the State Hospital at the Salinas Valley Psychiatric Program as a 2684 Prison Commitment for stabilization.  Ironic.  What happened at SVPP was a whole story apart from this one which I’ll get to later.  Why does Dr. Schneider practice Psychiatry?  Because he “cares”?  I believe that it is much more likely tied to his car/house/and Visa Card Payments, but then, I’m Mentally Ill.

If you are not knowledgeable about the finer distinctions in the Psychiatric categorizations of Mental Illnesses, I can tell you that a Psychosis is a cognitive, or thinking (ie. brain), disorder, and a Mood Disorder is considered an emotional problem.  The mind/body duality is taken as fact by modern American Psychology/Psychiatry, and in fact, if you look at their 12 Step Programs for substance abusers like me, which are based on “Spiritual Principles”, they also preach that we have a “Spirit”.  I don’t buy any of it, but hell, I’m not a Doctor, a Social Worker, or a Priest, so I don’t have to or say that I do even if I don’t.  From my initial “Psychotic Break” in 1987, (what they called my social withdrawal and emotional reaction to my excess drug abuse patterns catching up with me combined with, I believe, National Security Agents attacking me with a number of psychological, electronic, and chemical weapons), through about 2004, I was diagnosed with a number of “Disorders”, or “Mental Illnesses”.  First I was a Paranoid Schizophrenic.  Then around 1991 I somehow had instead Psychotic Disorder Not Otherwise Specified (NOS).  By about 1996 my Mental Disorder (I always try to remember to Capitalize these terms, it seems more serious, official, and objective that way), with Schizoaffective Disorder Bipolar Type.  These were all thought Disorders if I understand their Diagnostic and Statistical Manual’s definitions correctly.  Then, somehow, in 2005 as I recall, when I was sent to ASH Psychiatric Hospital in San Luis Obispo as an MDO, (“Mentally Disordered Offender”), for supervised Parole, (their term for further kindergarteny treatment when they feel like you haven’t sufficiently rehabilitated (or maybe they just need more money?)), I was diagnosed for the first time with a Mood Disorder – Bipolar Disorder with Schizoaffective Episodes – and there was a qualitative shift in the type of Psych Meds that I was required to take.  I went from atypical anti-psychotics to a mood stabilizer, Depakote (similar to Lithium).  In around 2014, in my second go around at ASH as an MDO, is when I think I was reclassified once again, to my current diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder Type I, Manic Type.

I am going to write an account of my own interpretation of my personal history which will perhaps not prove as a “fact” that I am not really Mentally Ill, but I will at least communicate a what I perceived happened in a number of historical events and get down my own interpretations which I prefer do not die with me.  In the overall scheme of things, I don’t think my own “suffering”, which although it has been fairly extensive, has had any kind of lasting traumatic effects on me as to the way I think or act now.  If anything, my punishment has “cured” my so-called Mental Illness.  As I’ve repeatedly denied, I don’t buy into the “Mental Illness” conception of me, but I do now have 2 “Strikes” in California and I cannot afford to be convicted of any further Felony Criminal Offenses without spending the rest of my life in Prison as a 3 Strike Loser.  So now, even when I “think bad thoughts” I mostly just keep them to myself whereas in the past, and particularly when drunk or min Psych Med withdrawal, I would “act out” and be both rude and threatening, in some cases I freely admit, to people who had done nothing to merit such a response from me.  I suppose “constructive venting” is one of if not the main purpose of my writing this.  What I do want to communicate, however, with the evidence I have in my mind, as well as a lot of actual documentation I have now and will obtain in the future, that I have indeed been the target of Government mind control experimentation.  Because of the nature of the National Security Act and the limitations on the information it is permissible for US Citizens to obtain through the Freedom of Information Act, it is likely I will never know “the true story”.  By structuring my thoughts here, I will clarify for myself through this process some of the things that have bothered me for years, and hopefully, really for my own personal satisfaction, come to a closer approximation of understanding what “the true story” is.

Basically, I currently believe “MK Ultra” was not discontinued by the CIA in the early 1970’s and in fact, whatever you want to call it, I think “Psychological Warfare” is an ongoing procedure being carried out on a daily basis everywhere in the United States and the rest of the world.  The effects on my own behavior of the broad cultural rot rammed down my senses daily by both the mass media and what I feel are the deteriorating social morals and ethics in my interpersonal interactions, have been further magnified in my own person through focused and direct personal attacks by NSA’s aimed at specifically at me.  If you want to know why I think I was singled out, I would say I was and I wasn’t.  I was culled out of the crowd, along with others, because of my exceptional smarts and creativity combined with my lack of “groundedness”, if I can call it that.  In 1976, when I was still at the dorms at UCLA, I wrote my brother Eric a letter, which I still remember, in which I was bubbling with enthusiasm for Marxist ideas.  Shortly thereafter, I had a “religious conversion” and became “Reborn” as a Christian.  For multiple reasons, I dropped that pose (or “belief system”) and slide into the “counter-culture” on the “Punk Rocker” and “New Wave” worlds.  I was ripe for picking by the behind the scenes manipulators to do their bidding.  It seems like I would be looking for a new mind set within a few more years.  I think that’s why I was picked for mind control experimentation and social manipulation.  The King Makers thought they could get me to do their bidding and I was invited to go into the Hollywood Cult of Celebrity as an “Art Star”.  For a number of reasons, mostly my own intransigence and monogamous/heterosexual obstinacy, I was rejected and blackballed by the Freemasons  for further initiation into their Satanic Cult.  I’ll get into specifics as to how I’ve come to this conclusion, not to worry.

I’ve met hundreds of individuals in the past 30 years who have suffered similar psychic attacks on themselves as I have and I’ve shared notes with them.  For me, such personal attacks have come in the form of directed energy weapons (ELF) projecting “thoughts” into my mind and infrared devices used to monitor my activities used in conjunction with ELF bombardments striping me of any sense of personal privacy and depriving me of my personal space.  The most outlandish claim I make and believe, is that these Cults have advanced technology called “Remote Neural Monitoring” (RMN).  Basically, I have believed for years that there are individuals (and of course they are in groups which I believe are centered around Zionist and Free Masonic sub- Cults) who can “read my mind”, which includes being able to “see”, literally on a video screen, both what my eyes see and what I see in my “minds eye” which I believe is related to my visual cortex in my brain, and the can hear what I hear and they can literally know what my thoughts are in language in real time.  I don’t know how this is accomplished and I know how insane this claim sounds, but I am convinced that it is possible and can be done to anyone.  I used to believe that such RNM was only possible in conjunction with skull and/or dental implants, but I believe that I was either misguided about that or that the technology has advanced now to a stage where implants are not required.  Also, chemical weapons have enhanced some of my delusional states of mind.  Substances such as crystal meth have been put into my food which I unwittingly ingested and I’ve taken Psychiatric “medications” willfully and naively in good faith.  Worse, have been the injections of “medications”, on many dozens of occasions, into my bloodstream in Court Ordered forced medication procedures, when I had no more faith in Psychiatrists mythical solutions.

What I have come to believe in the process of living my 58 years on earth, mostly here in Los Angeles, is that I am not really seriously Mentally Ill at all, but rather have been victimized by the Zionist and Freemasonic cults’ through their use of mind control, including hypnosis, electronic devices, unnecessary medications, organized slander, and inappropriate and severe punishment which has included at times extreme sleep deprivation and mental and physical isolation, as well through physical attacks in which I was targeted (“green lighted”) in over half a dozen instances in attacks by both LA County Sheriff Departments Deputies and by fellow TTCF Inmates and California Department of State Hospital Psychiatric Patients.  As a result of those processes, I have had to endured some rather extreme physical, emotional, and psychiatric/psychological torture and pain.  Perhaps you have heard such charges by others and you prefer to write such claims off as the paranoid concoctions of the Mentally Ill.  Undoubtedly, in many cases that is surely the truth.  But it’s not like I’ve had my legs blown off by an IED or land mine or was next to a good friend who suffered such a fate, so that’s why I won’t really complain about having acquired PTSD because of having had a few ribs broken or a couple of teeth knocked out.

In many cases I have had an abnormal disregard for the opinions of others regarding my actions effects on my “public image”, which has been further degraded by the incredible effectiveness that the above cited Cults’ activities have had on my thinking and resulting reactive Criminal Assaults and other behaviors for many years and in many situations.  In more cases than I can remember or innumerate I have appeared to others, at times believed myself to be, literally and totally “insane”.  A great number of people, especially including the vast majority of Psychiatric Doctors, Psychologists, Social Workers, etc. I’ve interviewed with in the past have believed, or said that they did, that I am seriously Mentally Ill and that my “delusions” of persecution and belief that I was an undercover FBI Operative are actually symptomatic of a Personality Disorder with Delusions of Grandiosity.   Some of my best friends have told me that they believe that that was, and to some still is, the case.  I agree that in a great number of instances I’ve acted crazy, but in most of those instances I was drunk or in a toxic state of mind from stopping taking my “meds” cold turkey and not tapering off the dosage as required.  Such rash behavior can be actually drug induced, in the sense that psychotropic drug withdrawal produces severe behavioral side effects in itself.  I do not have sufficient verifiable “facts” which I can report to you which will prove “beyond a shadow of a doubt” the veracity of the above seemingly outlandish allegation that the Jews and Masons activities (“dirty tricks” if you will) have been at the root of my sometimes erratic behavior others resulting perception of me as Mentally Ill.  Much worse has been the resulting medical diagnoses by a multitude of Psychiatrists that my behavior reflects that I am actually Mentally Ill.   To myself, the most significant proof that I will describe within these pages is the large number of non-random events and ritual abuses I have experienced in my life.  As I am not a Member of the Zionist (Cabal) or any Free-masonic Lodge, my knowledge of the history, rules and methods of those social Organizations has come in bits and pieces, and is basically limited.  Those organizations are called “Cults” because, by their very nature, as the “Punk Rocker” “Darby Crash” AKA “Bobby Pin” named at birth “Jan Paul Beahm” claimed in the title of one of his records, “What We Do Is Secret”.   A band that I had peripheral involvement as a video artist in 1980, “X”, is still playing 40 years after their inception, (as I suppose they have to), and just last week they had a “Secret Show”.  Big fucking deal.  I saw somebody on their website actually call them God.  In their cover of the old Doors song, (the Doors for Christ’s sake), there’s a line about “light another cigarette, and speak in secret alphabets, and learn to forget . . . . . ”  Secret alphabets?    I wish it were so easy, and that’s why I drank for 20 years too many too much.  Too try to forget.  But in Al Pacino cum Michael Corleone said in the God Father “ . . . but they keep dragging me back . . . “ or some such horseshit.

Perhaps I was “supposed” to go the way of the “tragic hero” and kill myself.  I’m pretty boring sometimes, but not that boring.  Therein lie my delusions, according to the Psychiatrists.  Head Doctors have assured me for years that when I thought people were “talking about me” or making “cryptic references” to other people or referring to past or future events in my life in order to influence my actions, that I was actually suffering from a mental disorder and experiencing “Referential Thinking” and/or “Thought Projection”.  I certainly cannot deny that many of the things I have thought in my own mind and communicated verbally, and in writings, over these many years have been completely delusional.

In 2002, on 3 separate occasions I perceived persons not well known to me saying verbatim and I quote: “If you don’t marry A. we’re going to kill you.”   They said it in non sequitur fashion and totally out of context of what we were talking about.   In a 4th instance, I overheard radio Schlock Jock Howard Stern make a similar comment on his televised replay of his NYC radio show on his E Entertainment cable TV show while I was cooking dinner in an apartment in Santa Monica that Summer.  He said, verbatim: “If Tony doesn’t marry A. we’re going to kill him.”  These perceptions were perhaps all complete delusions.  I’m as sure as the fact that I’m not dead now that these things were said though.  Of course, I’ve been counseled by friends and family that my perceptions were all shear delusions and to let it go, just forget it.  Well, why should I, I’m not a fucking Christian.  Am I supposed to be “grateful” that I wasn’t killed by the Jewish Mafia after all and let sleeping dogs lie?  I was involved in 1980 in a May – September sexual affair with a woman named A.H. when I was a student at UCLA 1980, 20 some years previous to those threats.  I assumed this was the “A.” these persons and Mr. Stern were referring to.  I have no “rational” explanation for why these people would say such a seemingly absurd statement or why three different people would repeat it to me?  The fact is I was told by a coworker during the production of the 1st Tim Burton version of “Planet of the Apes”, on which I worked on in the Art Department as a Prop Maker, that A. H. is a Mason.  That was before the threats even occurred.  I’ll have more to say about the H. lady at a later time.  For now, suffice to say, I did not marry her and I have not been killed, so if my perceptions were accurate and those people who said that actually did say that, then there must be an explanation as to why they did.  I don’t have that explanation.   All I’ll say now is that I have heard that A.H. is married now so I guess I missed my chance.  And I say good for her, I hope she is content with her salt water Jacuzzi in her home in Rancho Park, or wherever she lives now.  But I also heard from a good friend, and usually reliable source of information, that one of H.’s sources of income is directing pornographic films.  C’est la vie, I suppose.  I have some theories about that person and her “problem”.   Which are by their very nature “conspiracy theories” which I will get to at a later date.  All I can say for now is that her problem is as clear as the nose on her face.

It must be apparent already at the outset of this blog that I do not share some of the assumptions of my brother Dennis Allard, who operates this website, oceanpark.com.  I appreciate much of what he has done for me during my life, especially in providing me at times material assistance such as a roof over my head, which he has done on a few occasions.  I’m even more grateful to him for tending my finances and “putting money on my books” during my many incarcerations in various Government Penal and Mental Institutions.  But his somewhat obsessive documentation of my Legal problems and my Psychiatric Care is a different matter for me.  His documentation on his Ocean Park Blog was by necessity limited in the extreme because he winnowed out a few dozen pages of written history from the vast quantity of Legal and Medical (ie. Psychiatric) information involved in over six and a half years of my struggles in Courtrooms and Hospital Doctors’ Offices and Ward Hallways, between July 23, 2009 when he started that process and February 15, 2016, which marked the end of his documentation.  His Oceanpark Column’s blog’s “Mental Health” category on this website are not really in the genre of favors that he has rendered me which I can say I really appreciate that much and I will tell you briefly why that is.

At the very very head of that series of documents, he put the following statement:

“Category Archives: Mental Health

The saga of my brother who is afflicted with Paranoid Schizophrenia. Eventually I would like to provide a resource page where people can share their ideas for how to improve what is a very broken system in the United States for dealing with Mental Health issues.”

The real “saga” of my life, if that word can be defined as “a long story of heroic achievement,” is not over yet.  As far as heroic, there has been nothing brave about my past and continuing struggles against the forces that have oppressed me, rather it has been a struggle for shear survival on my part.  And the fact that Dennis denies is that those forces are in part organized Jewry.  My “struggle” has led me to my current state of mind, I am not “schizophrenic” (and haven’t even been diagnosed as such for more than 2 decades), but rather, I’m angry and disillusioned.  What I am, not by choice or because of some irrational hatred, is anti-Jewish.  And I know that because of the incredible power of media Jews, that such an opinion is always equated by the “mainstream” mass media as “anti-Semitism”.  The predominant Politically Correct interpretation of reality contends the same thing.  And as David Duke, who will have been a “Grand Dragon in the KKK” until the day he dies, has to be denigrated 35 years later for his youthful involvement with a group that in itself is, in my opinion, is a front organization of Zionist disinformation specialists and agent provocateurs.  My “story” is a thousand fold more complex than portrayed by Dennis in his Mental Health blog, which I’m sure he is well aware.  In my view, I think his own belief system and faith in “Science”, and particularly in “Medical Science” in this case, have adversely colored his interpretations of the various facts he has reported, and even more significantly his choice of and manner of describing which facts he did choose to report.  Also, his undying, yet uncritical, denial of the power of international Jewish organizations, both financially and culturally, blinds him to the horrible racist and totalitarian nature of the Jewish people.  In short, I may indeed be Mentally Ill, but Dennis and a large percentage of the world’s Goyim are unwitting dupes and naïve sheep.

So anyhow, what I believe is that to even consider certain intuitive truths that by now I feel my brother should better grasp, like that there is at least a possibility that instead of suffering from some kind of physiological mental disorder as has been whispered in his ear (and mine and just about everyone I know) by a little angel for almost 30 years, that I have instead actually been a victim, (and only one of millions of us worldwide at that), of the Zionist/Masonic Cult’s mind control and a politically motivated slur campaigns.  As I said before, my belief is that there was an option open to me for years to join up with the Cult.  At a certain point I was “black balled” by the same Hollywood elites who had proffered offers of Cult initiation and acceptance with ritual loyalty tests coupled with what to me were unbelievably coercive threats spoken at me by their proxy stooges for years.  I really don’t need to know any more about the true nature of plausible deniability which the Cults’ Mucky-Mucks use to hide their identity from public revelation.  After I failed to respond with appropriate sexual abandon to certain offers of gratuitous sex with extremely desirable women and a few times in group setting testing my willingness to participate in multiple partner bacchanals, a campaign was launched against my psyche which has lasted for years.  I perceived their goal after they turned on me was to ruin any chance I had to gain social status social status or maintain material wealth.  By labeling me as an “anti-Semite”, a term which is like being called a “nigger lover” at a KKK rally, they have destroyed my reputation and ability to find work in Hollywood.  Really, truthfully, I think they were actually trying drive me to literal self-destruction via suicide.  I believe the flip-flop from their initial encouraging activity in my life toward Cult membership and participation in their rituals into actual MK Ultra style methods of mind destroying psychic warfare, came a s a result of my refusal to become a crypto-fascist supporter of their materialistic, one world agenda, and pursue their chosen Jewess Cult Practitioner towards marriage.   After that refusal of their crypto-commandments to pursue that front woman when they ordered me to do so in 2001, as I had refused their hinds masny years previously to pursue her further, I found it even more difficult to deal with my day to day confrontation with their subliminal bullying than I had for the previous 15 years.  Only an extreme pleasure in and interest in life sustained my will to live in the face of their relentless onslaughts.

Getting back to the theme I want to finish with in my initial entry to this new blog, in all fairness, I have to say that that I my brother Dennis, my brother Eric, and myself all have a strong sense of filial responsibility, which were bred into us by our father’s own paternal instincts and actions.  My father, and both my brothers always acted in good faith towards me, at times despite what can only be described as what was bafflingly stupid and self-destructive actions on my part.  I didn’t always agree with their actions, particularly my father and Dennis in a number of situations where they found it necessary to exercise “tough love”.  I may not have made it this far without economic help across some of my bleaker self destructive years that seem to have been interspersed between other much happier and prosperous times.  Also, I was addicted to excess use of alcohol and marijuana for 30 years, habits which I have effectively ceased since 2000 due to a combination of determination and incarcerations.  Those activities, which when coupled with the constant onslaught of psychological attacks by the Cult’s operatives, caused me to have many erratic behaviors and exacerbated my inability to remain economically self-sufficient at times.  I have to own up and take most of the blame for putting both my father and Dennis in a position to feel obligated to help me financially, especially since my brother Eric cut me tons of slack in the odd behavior department, even as I earned my living primarily by working as a prototype machinist in his Special Effects shops for 15 years between 1985 and 1999.  I am truly fortunate that I have had financial support from all the men in my immediate family over the span of my adult life.  It’s ironic to me that as a result of my supposed mental disability I now have financial stability, by way of Social Security Disability Income, for the first time in about 15 years.  Certain elements in our society find it so fashionable to decry our “paternal” culture, as if men should not feel and exercise filial responsibility towards their wives and offspring.  In my case, I let those freaks get the upper hand on my consciousness for long enough, but it’s all over now.

Having set out the above, I don’t really feel the need or have the time to refute the errors that I believe are incorporated within the texts of the 7 chapters of my Dennis’ Mental Health blog.  If you followed that blog in the past perhaps you will probably be interested in what I will say in this new blog of my own.  I do not deny that he reported various historical occurrences accurately in that old blog, but I don’t intend to try to separate the wheat from the chaff as far as truthfulness of his accounts.  There are some blaring errors and omissions, but I don’t feel like rehashing old news.  He has offered to take the entire text of that Mental Health blog off-line, an offer which I appreciate, but I don’t believe he should.  It stands as his interpretation of some of the struggles he and I have gone through together, and as such I think he should keep it there as long as he wishes to.  My purpose from now on will be to try to describe as accurately as I can, the process by which I myself came to the conclusion that I don’t have to believe what these freaks tell me, because they are big liars.  I want to state for the record some of the conclusions I have come to about what has happened to me, and what has happened since I made a firm resolve to ignore for the most part what other people tell me I must do or not do, what is true or untrue, and what is going to or not going to happen.

I’ve known for years I must do to remain sane and out of punitive environments.  I am on a small dose of Depakote which I’m not convinced I need.  I eating well and getting some exercise, and I believe my thinking is now more in line with empirically verifiable reality.   I have rejected the supposed validity of something called “dialectical materialism” which I never really understood very well anyhow.  I have recognized the absurdity of the Jewish supremacist world view and can now separate my dislike for those types of Jews who populated the Palestinian’s homeland and call it Israel from ethnic Jews who have about as much in common with Zionists as I do with the Pope.  As for all those pretentious assholes who are on top in Hollywood Illuminati’s echelon of obscenity I just brush the dust of my lapel and kept walking after groveling for about 20 years trying to please the unpleasable.  Call me what you want, but having now rejected Psychiatry’s twisted proscriptions which I allowed to define me for 25 years and no longer accepting those “Doctors” pronouncements about my knowledge and beliefs, their interpretations of the causes of my “deviant” beliefs, my “anti-Semitism”, and my previously uncontrolled behavior no longer affect me as before.

I mentioned Dr. David Duke before.  I know how David Duke feels, and a really have much respect for him.  Every time the people in the media mention his name, they have to preface it with a “He’s the KKK guy” clause.  As somebody who has been maligned for years as Mentally Ill, I know exactly how that makes him feel.  Like him, I don’t deny that I’ve acted in many situations in the past as a maniac.  But if I was a Jew named James Osterberg, Jr. who took on the persona of (Z)Iggy Pop, I could have made millions or dollars at being a self-destuctive Psychopath.  Personally, I think Dr. Duke is wrong in his belief that Jesus was and is the Son of God, because I don’t believe the Jews ever had the “Truth” in the first place and their “Law” is meaningless to me.  I don’t believe I need to be forgiven for violating rules that were a complete fiction to start out with.  But he can believe that if he wants and clearly Jesus message is in every way superior to that of Aleister Crowley, Timothy Leary and all his CIA Freak Show MK Ultra spiritual descendants.  I know that Duke would not force his beliefs about Christ on me either.  I have other friends who call themselves Christians, and I believe after what I’ve discovered about life, that they too are delusional.  But in a good way if that is possible.  After working in Hollywood’s myth factories for 20 years and watching their dreck of movie screens and TV for much longer than that, I know how good Jews are at spinning tales.  Since the entire Bible, Old and New Testament was written by and for Jews, I think Mr. Duke is in the same boat as the Pope when it comes to the conceptual box he confines himself to.  Or let me say at least they seem to be in the same fleet.  Personally I’d prefer to sail on Duke’s ship at this point, however, if I had to choose.

The Psychiatric establishment’s view of me, judging from the overwhelming consensus of Shrinks I’ve spoken to, is that I am genetically predisposed to some constantly shifting and ill defined “Mental Illness”, that has changed as often as the President of the US, and that really doesn’t line up with the reality that I am living.  They have rammed their biological deterministic concept of my mostly environmentally engendered emotional problems down my brain for so long that even good old gullible me can’t believe their horse shit du jour any more.

One final point I need to make at the outset of this new blog, “Am I really Mentally Ill?” There was a 10-minute video clip that my brother had posted here of an interrogation he did of me back in early September of 2009.   When I was released in July of 2015 from the California State Hospital in San Luis Obispo, ASH, I reviewed that interview and requested that Dennis remove it from his website, which he did.  Back just days prior to when we recorded that interview, in 2009, I had just been acquitted in a previous Robbery case which I had been fighting for six months while locked up in the LA Sheriff Department’s Twin Towers Correctional Facility.  When Dennis asked me if he could ask me a few questions on video I mistakenly acquiesced, thinking I suppose, that I could prove to him that I wasn’t “Mentally Ill”, like he and just about everybody I knew were convinced of.  My presentation in that document is certainly not “normal” by any standard of judgement, my speech was pressured, I was gritting my teeth, and I was very angry.  I also had a sever cramp in my left hand which I kept closing and opening into a fist throughout his questioning, reinforcing the impression that I was crazy.  I also made several clearly delusional references to things which I no longer believe are accurate.  I did claim in the interview to be a victim of mind control in unequivocal terms and I obviously still believe that.

Unintentionally I believe, near the start of the interview when I told Dennis “I’m moving on now”, he responded to my comment in an exasperated tone with “it sounds to me like you have long rooted delusions that are very real to you” and that “all these [delusions] come from inside your head”, a couple of statements that more or less brought home to me not only Dennis’ longtime conviction that I am seriously Mentally Ill.  He then continued throughout the rest of the video in the adversarial role of an inquisitor, trying to ascertain my “med compliance”, asking me in various form, “Are you taking you’re meds or not?”  Unfortunately, that is the basic stance that for years so many people have taken toward me upon discovering that I have been diagnosed with Mentally Illness.  In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I met with a new Psychiatrist, from the CDCR Parole Outpatient Clinic, via “Telemed”, Skype like video meeting with me here in Lancaster, CA and he in Sacramento.  Of course, the first thing he asked me was my dosage and if I was taking, my “Psych Meds”.  You get tired as a NSA victim of political oppression and historically repeatedly reinforced disinformation about having a mental “Disorder”, that at time you just want to burst.  That is the exact one down role that Patients are put vis-a-vis even low level “psych Techs” in State Hospitals, who after one year of training, most of it on the job, they are permitted to treat any and all of the “Patients” in the hospital with a similar, what I have to call for the lack of a more precise word because this one sums up so well just what the attitude is, condescending attitude toward.  These Psychiatric sycophants believe that because somebody has been defined by the “State of California”, as “Mentally Ill”, that they automatically have the right to treat them as children or mentally retarded adults.  Seriously, it gets old.

Upon viewing the tape again last week, which some of you readers who followed Dennis’ blog previously have no doubt seen, for only the second time since it was made, I became quite upset when I counted the number of times my brother asked me in the recording if I was taking or planning to take my “meds”.  10 fucking times he asked me that and nine times I sidestepped his question.  It was blatantly obvious that I was not on meds and just as obvious that I didn’t want to answer his question.  I just want to point out to anyone reading this who saw that interview that I had just been release a few days prior to that after having been tortured, by what I considered then and now to be draconian measures compared to the behavior I was accused of having done.  When I finally answered him that I was not taking my prescribed Abilify, (and had not been for 14 months previously to that, both out of Jail and then after arrested and incarcerated by faking swallowing it or “cheeking” the pills at my Jail cell door), Dennis then continued to goad me on.  That interview will not be put back on the Internet again as I really have moved on since then.  Dennis had hoped to have it remain, even as an edited down version if I could take out the parts that I found objectionable, but unfortunately, during the entire 10-minute conversation I did come off as Dennis’ “schizophrenic brother” and that is probably why he misinterpreted my behavior in the title of the short which was “An interview with my schizophrenic brother.”  I do want to make video addendum to his Mental Health blog to demonstrate to those of you who saw that previous curiosity that I am not really like I was presenting at that time, when not fresh of six months of brutal treatment at the hands of LA County Sheriff Deputies during the height of Sheriff Lee Baca’s reign of terror.  The new video will be posted on this site very soon.  Thanks for your interest in this blog.

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PARADISE

Misha had always wondered about that June day. There was that moment, for example, when he and his fiancee had returned from a trip to Yosemite and ended up at Venice beach watching an exquisite sunset. The brief vacation had been somewhat unsettling for both but neither Misha nor his fiancee said anything. Perhaps they attributed their blasé feelings to fatigue.

As the sun set into the Pacific, two planes could be seen flying in opposite directions as if they had somehow magically appeared from behind the sun. Misha was a rational person but was also attuned to the symbology, the metaphors in nature and about him. Signs. Signals. Omens.

Much later, years later, even….he would recall this memory often.

Just two months later, there was the pregnancy. Then the decision: marriage. Afterall, his fiancee had already suffered through an abortion. It seemed the appropriate thing to do, the alternatives being what they were. The proposal was something like this: ‘Well, maybe we should just get married.’ God only knows why she agreed but it probably had something to do with avoiding a second abortion.

Two weeks before the wedding, while lugging some of his possessions in his VW square-back, driving down Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, Misha detected fumes and then heard someone blaring a horn. He looked in his review mirror and saw a dark cloud of smoke spewing out, quickly pulled over and lifted the rear engine cover, only to have flames shoot up into his face.

‘Oh Shit!’ He ran into some nondescript business which didn’t have a sign and looked like some kind of office. A man stood looking at him.

“Hey, man…. can I borrow your fire extinguisher?”

“Nope,” the man spoke with a wry smirk on his face. He obviously was enjoying the scene. He tapped his cigarette on a trash can, unconcerned about the California smoking laws, or maybe they didn’t apply to his business, whatever it was. He took a long drag and blew the smoke almost directly into Misha’s face.

“But there’s a fire station just around the corner down a few blocks,” the man continued, as if to prolong this interlude of entertainment which had broken his boring afternoon. He pointed in the general direction.

“Thanks!” And Misha took off running as the station turned out to be six or more blocks away and, worse, there was no way to alert the firemen inside who were probably shooting pool anyways and quaffing a few, so Misha angrily imagined. There did appear to be some alarm button on the side of the building and he pushed it but to no effect as far as he could tell. It appeared that no one stirred inside. He waited but no movement could he detect.

‘Fucking aholes!’ And he raced back to his car and watched it slowly burn up, helpless. It was the kind of helplessness he would feel many times in his life as if fate had thousands of such incidents mapped out for Misha, footprints to follow…so to speak, some sick program predetermined by the universe.

Finally, the fire trucks arrived but by then the vehicle was a total loss although Misha had been able to salvage a few possessions and set them on the sidewalk. He had a plastic crate in which he crammed some odds and ends, mostly sports gear including a baseball glove, hardball, Frisbee and tennis racket.

As he stood staring at the firemen who sprayed some foam on his car, Misha thought back to the repairs some mechanics had recently completed on his VW and then realized that they had totally screwed up, done a shabby job and there had obviously been a fuel line that was not secured or some such other delinquent fix. ‘More assholes!!’ he thought.

The firemen took off but not before admonishing Mishaa that he had to hire a tow truck to haul the burned vehicle otherwise he would get ticketed by the police. So fitting. Finally, relinquishing all to fate, Misha made the call inside a cafe nearby and returned to the sidewalk once again, staring at the vehicle.

Eventually, the tow-truck driver pulled up and at that very moment, a young Mexican kid on a bicycle swept by, reached out toward Misha’s possessions and grabbed his tennis racquet sticking out prominently and within reach. It was a crime of opportunity done without much thought, probably just for the hell of it, and off the kid continued on down the street.

“Hey, you punk,” Misha shouted out at the kid sped up and he took off running after him. This is where all his training for the marathon he had recently completed paid off, at least. The kid turned into an apartment complex and Misha followed and cornered the tall youngster who turned as if to use the racquet as a weapon and made a feint to hit Misha who grabbed the racquet and punched the kid who was, at that point, off his bike.

“You idiot!” A voice boomed and Misha looked up at the other side of the driveway which exited to the cross street. “This is gang territory,” said the tow-truck driver who had raced around the block after observing the events, recognizing the possibility of danger or at least imagining it, “Hop in the truck, now!”

Misha complied and listened to the rant of the tow-truck driver describe how lucky he was that there were no Latino gang-bangers around to pummel his head and otherwise inflict pain as was their wont, if one were to believe the pulsing ravings of the driver who presumed to have intimate knowledge of the local gangs in the neighborhood.

They returned to the site of the torched vehicle where the tow-truck driver hooked it up, pulling away as Misha watched his VW square-back disappearing down the boulevard. Misha pondered all the memories associated with it: the camping and back-packing trips to Joshua Tree, the Golden Trout Wilderness in the Sierra, Mineral Springs, etc. He experienced some pangs of sadness but tried to push them away.

He grabbed his box of possessions and began walking down the street, toward the house where his brother lived some several miles away. Feeling somewhat forlorn but accepting the reality of the situation and having expended much emotional energy and too worn out to even think of who else he might call. Besides, his brother never answered the phone.

Turning to cross the street, he heard someone yell out his name, and caught sight of two of his housemates driving down the street. The two women pulled over and Misha asked them for a ride. He hopped in their vehicle, putting his box in their trunk first. Talk about a serendipity. He had only been living near Silver Lake for a few months with these two women and what were the chances of his roommates being on the westside and encountering him at this particular moment? (Could God possibly feel guilty?’ Misha speculated).

He quickly filled the girls in on his tragedy and they both listened and commiserated. Misha had only been living with them a few months, having fled his previous refuge due to the bad vibes of living with a dedicated paranoid-phobic type roommate, his oldest brother, whose justification for hating everyone was that they were ‘weird’. This was the very same brother whose residence he was now headed.

The driver, Eve, was a pleasant-enough nymphomaniac which he had deduced from the constant stream of men whom traipsed in and out of the house while he had been living there. During a three month period, there were no less than six men Misha had been introduced to and that was only when he was around. Indeed, she had even hit on Misha one night, not shortly after his fiancee had suffered from her miscarriage.

The other woman, Lorilei, a lesbian, was friendly enough if still somewhat ambivalent about her sexuality. This was par for the course at least in the 1980s in Los Angeles, where sexual identify amongst the artistic crowd was always a flexible affair. She was a bit depressed but as interesting as her friend, working for some local news station as a videographer. Both were easy to get along with and attractive besides.

Misha’s third roommate, Jan, was a psychologist who sported the license plate, ‘Cum n Play’ on his Volvo and who talked to his mother weekly in a meek and feminine voice as if she were his lover. Misha’s roommates would have made fantastic prototypes for characters in some sitcom, much more interesting than those on Three’s Company which had been popular a few years earlier.

“Can you give me a lift to my brother’s place?” Misha asked. “It’s a couple miles away on the edge of Culver City. From there, Misha thought he could borrow his brother’s car and to get to his newly rented apartment he and his fiancee had found in Westwood Village close to UCLA.

“Of course,” Eve replied. They chatted some and Misha reminded them of their invitation to his wedding while they made their way through the crowded city streets. Within fifteen minutes, Misha was knocking at his brother’s place, a residence where he had spent two years after having moved from the Valley. Actually Steve, his brother’s best friend, owned the house and rented out rooms. Fortunately, Dan was home just as Misha expected. Dan opened the door and, seeing his younger brother, made some grunt of recognition and let him in.

Dan stared at Misha, without saying a word, a look of confusion on his face. Dan had been rooming there after Steve had divorced his wife and bought the house, Steve and Dan being long term buddies going back to the mid-sixties when all was in transition and confusion. Dan’s life was allegory for that confusion, that state of not knowing what the future held because he stared into the horror that was SouthEast Asia where he had spent two years in Thailand doing Intelligence work which he never defined or even talked about.

“My fucking car burned up!” Misha dourly spoke. “Can’t imagine much more shit happening to me before my marriage. Can you believe it? First the miscarriage, then my car.”

His brother said nothing. He had no interest, his thought process a complete mystery to most. A laconic person by nature, somewhere on the continuum of Aspergers, he simply left Misha there to deal with his problems and went back to his bedroom where he normally spent some two-thirds of his life while over his bed hung a poster of Stalin, whom he called Uncle Joe and admired because he ‘got things done’ as he often responded when others complained about the government. No one quite knew how to take this comment supposing that Dan was being sarcastic, not realizing the depth of belief in that remark.

Misha used the phone and called his friend Todd and asked if he could borrow his car since he now realized that asking his brother would not be worth the time because he knew that his brother would refuse, mostly because Misha was known to be a bit reckless.

Only recently, he had been ticketed for a dangerous turn on the freeway coming home from work, his sixth that year. Two months earlier, he had totaled his fiancee’s car and nearly died or so he told the story. Cops made it a habit to stop him, pulling him over for some minor infraction or other if only because he displayed bumper stickers on his car that no doubt riled them.

Stickers like, ‘Support the Black Panthers’, or ‘Impeach Reagan’, or ‘America Sucks.’

When Misha told others that he was being targeted, his listeners were skeptical. But he would tell them: “Look, if a cop follows anyone long enough, there’s going to be a reason to pull that person over.”

Not that anyone believed him. And that was part of the frustration Misha had experienced most of his life, people’s skepticism at his description and analysis of events.

How could he convince people that being given a ticket for going too slow or not signaling when making a right turn were normally things cops ignored? It was impossible to persuade people who had not been the victim of so many such incidents.

But back to Todd.

Todd was Misha’s friend with whom he had hitch-hiked across the country back in the early 1970s. That was after they had attended the first Rainbow Festival in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado before heading toward their real destination, the Republican Convention where they ended up joining a zippie commune and were arrested some three times for their political protesting. This had cemented their friendship.

Unfortunately, Todd suffered from an existential crisis, complete with a mania inspired by amphetamines and God know’s what else. So, Misha spent limited time around him, and only when it was a matter of pragmatic need.

Todd was the type of person that liked to orchestrate outings with friends as if he were a movie director providing them all with a backdrop to some fantasy he was executing as his mind traced some fantastic storyline. He had had many girlfriends but never married…a wise move on his part. Much later in life, he was to end up homeless and psychotic begging for hand-outs on Skid Row in downtown, L.A.

An evening out with Todd was enough to drain any normal person and only someone like Misha could tolerate the frenetic path through which his friend might deliver him, having been around enough eccentric persons through the myriad experiences that his life had drawn him (if only because Misha himself appreciated such experiences from an artistic point of view).

Misha thought that it was sort of like being around the famed Neal Cassidy on Kerouac’s famous novel, On the Road. But Todd would lend Misha his car and this enabled him to get back to his apartment.

The cosmic forces were set in stone in a conspiracy to fuck with Misha, but it would take him years to discover this fact. His soon-to-be impending marriage was to devolve over a twelve year period into a relationship fraught with his wife’s affairs and deceptions, lies and violence, and even worse. But Misha was stoic and trusting by nature, loyal to a fault and oblivious, a romantic who would not admit to the dark depths that any human was capable of sinking. Naive, you might say or really stupid as others might have concluded.

The day of the reckoning, his marriage to Jackie, was fantastic if one were to evaluate it in terms of the reception that followed which, like so many weddings, turn into a charade of happiness as if to create the fantasy of a permanent exuberance. Couples cling to the happily ever after all fantasy, all human experience to the contrary, at least in the U.S. where the divorce rate hits 50%. Second marriages are worse, at 55%.

Of course, this does not even take into account the plethora of marriages which are immensely dysfunctional and survive due to practical considerations or a multitude of other pathetic reasons. In truth, it is doubtful that even 10% of marriages result in true happiness. In fact, it is rather amazing how many people put on a front of happiness to their family and friends, meanwhile living double or false lives. Maintaining a front often becomes a full time job for both spouses.

*****

Misha’s first marriage lasted a dozen years or so before his wife left him. At that point, they had moved on to Oregon where his wife had wanted to join a spiritual community. Misha quickly sized up the community as a cult, saying to his wife: “There are too many plasticized smiling faces here.” She disagreed and left him to become one of the several hundred devotees of this Swami who later was sued by a host of women in the community with whom he had had sex.

A few years later Misha found himself entangled in his second marriage with a woman whom he thought was the love of his life. But that marriage only lasted four years before she inherited half a million dollars…..hired a lawyer and then quickly divorced him and a year later, began her fourth marriage….or was it her fifth? No one was sure, least of all her kids.

In fact, Misha actually found a tape recording his wife had made in therapy for what reason he had no idea. He had been going through his own cassette tapes of music he had recorded over many years and had found a blank tape. He popped it in and first thought it was blank. But he turned the volume up fully and then heard a faint voice. He had to put his ear to the audio recording and soon realized it was his second wife who had taped a session with her therapist.

On it she revealed that she had had multiple affairs on her husbands her whole life. At the end of the tape, Misha could hear the therapist say: ‘Well, don’t forget to erase this tape.’

Apparently, his wife had thought she had erased it but there was still a very faint recording of her and the therapist’s voices. He strained to listen to his ex-wife admitting to sordid affairs from a life filled with her licentious behavior. And worse, the horrors of her childhood revealed a tale which recapitulated a history of her mother’s decadence and perversions and explained Misha’s wife’s despondent moods and, later, severe anxiety attacks.

Wow, he thought. And he was lucky. For if he had known the whole story of his wife’s life…he would have been shell-shocked. The woman’s life would have made a best selling novel and major motion picture. It had murder, two suicides and a shocking family revelation that Misha’s ex-wife’s much younger sister had discovered…….. a deep tragic secret which had explained the mystery of their mother’s pathological lifestyle. But that is grist for another story.

For years, Misha had been a free-lance editor for a number of years and figured he could work online almost anywhere. So he packed the few possessions he would need, sold all the rest, and decided to go to Costa Rica where he spent the next four years bumming about while he earned enough to actually increase his savings.

Finally, after much reflection, he decided to return to his island paradise…..where he had lived while in the Peace Corps some 45 years earlier after graduating from the University of California in Los Angeles. In Palau, life had been simple and although modern technology had invaded….he could still live the simple, unadulterated life he had longed for most of his life.

While traveling Central America and Mexico, he kept in contact with a few friends and his family over the years and updated them before he told them that he was departing for his new life which he intended to carve out in Palau….now an independent country.

Soon after he arrived, he took up with a much younger and beautiful woman and was now living the simple life he had always yearned for. ‘Why?’ he often asked himself….’did he not recognize or did he not follow-up on this feeling much earlier in life?

All his life, he had been alienated from American culture and the horrors of what he called consumer capitalism….the last stage in a decrepit system which he avowed ‘ate its own’ which he believed to be an apt metaphor and not at all an exaggeration.

So, he settled down and lived the simple life, hanging out with the natives, fishing in their outrigger canoes, partaking of a community that he had always longed for. He read books, re-learned the native language, wrote and otherwise whiled away the time.

Friends back home would ask him, “Are you happy?” And he would tell them:

“Any fool can be happy. That’s easy. But to be content. That is a challenge. And yes, I am content. I don’t need the luxuries and frivolous entertainment of a society committed to destroying itself all for the sake of making profits, consuming endless stuff, and dedicated to the proposition that there is never enough.

“No,” he would continue, “I don’t need to prove anything to anybody. And I have found balance in my life. ‘Besides, the weather is near-perfect all year round.”

This was the gist Misha’s last letter he wrote to his eldest brother who upon reading it, simply said, ‘Huh?’ and then went back to watching his football game while he examined the new automatic weapon he had recently bought for protection. Then he looked up at Uncle Joe and smiled. No one would fuck with him now.

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7. Is my brother cured of mental illness?

Chapter 7 in a series on mental illness.

[bottom] [ch.1] [ch.2] [ch.3] [ch.4] [ch.5] [ch.6] [ch.7] [ch.8]

It has been over five years since I penned the previous chapter in this chronicle. My brother was incarcerated in the California correctional system for most of that time. He was released this past June of 2015 after being convicted on crimes of felony vandalism and criminal threats. He did those acts while off his meds, fully delusional, and in a state of what his friends and I refer to as insanity. Much of that story is recounted in early chapters (see the links above). After five long years, the last of which was spent on parole at Atascadero State Hospital, Tony is finally a free man once again. As Tony puts it, he has spent eleven of the past thirteen years of his life incarcerated in various institutions. That is a story that only he can tell. In time, he will tell it. I know he will and I look forward to hearing the whole story.

For now, I will just say that my brother is doing well, under the circumstances. He is staying on meds, he has housing, and we enjoy spending time together again.

Is my brother cured of his mental illness? My answer to that is no, I don’t think so. I believe that the reason he is rational now is due to him staying on his medications. If he were to go off his meds, as he has done in the past, I think he would “decompensate” as he puts it, and fall back into a pattern of irrationality that I have tried to describe in early chapters of this saga.

I will let Tony tell his own story going forward if he so chooses. Tony asked me to remove the original interview we did from YouTube because it contained some personal information he preferred to not be in the public eye as well as some inaccuracies. Tony once told me that he did not want to make a career out of my his mental illness. Still, he is a good writer. I hope he will write about his experiences in the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation. It is a fascinating story. And I hope he will allow our original interview, perhaps edited a bit, to be public again and do a follow-up interview.

Until such time as Tony writes about his own life or collaborates with me, this brief note will be the last chapter in the story I’ve had to tell.

[top] [bottom] [ch.1] [ch.2] [ch.3] [ch.4] [ch.5] [ch.6] [ch.7] [ch.8]

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I am still Charlie — Je suis toujours Charlie

January 7, 2016 marks the one year anniversary of the attack by Islamist extremists on the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo. I noticed little or no mention in the so-called alternative American press about that horrible event of one year past. Not by Democracy Now nor by KPFK’s Sojourner Truth program. I recall when it happened that the U.S. Left displayed ignorance about Charlie Hebdo, not to the point of justifying the attack on Charlie Hebdo but questioning the magazine’s choice to use blunt satire about Mohammed and in some cases calling the magazine racist.

That ignorance was ignorance by omission, ignoring the simple fact that Charlie Hebdo satirizes all religion. But Charlie Hebdo supports the rights of immigrants including Muslim immigrants. The editor Stéphane Charbonnier, aka “Charb”, who was killed by the terrorists, was an outspoken atheist but also a strong supporter of immigrant rights. For example he opposed law in France that bans Muslim women from wearing the veil. Here is quote from an interview with Charb: “Of 1058 numbers, there are only three covers on Islam. Every week we defend the undocumented, many of whom are Muslims, we fight against racism and discrimination, it is for the right to vote for immigrants … And as a personal note, I was against the law against wearing the veil. But the media never talk about Charlie Hebdo for these positions, which are more in favor of Muslims.”. Here is the full inteview with Charb (in French).

In some broadcasts by the left after the attack, such as on Lila Garrett’s show Connect the Dots, Charlie Hebdo was referred to as being racist, an ironically false statement. I attempted to educate Lila to that effect in this email exchange

So, on this anniversary of that tragedy, we should honor the unbridled voice of Charlie Hebdo and all brave journalists who satirize all that deserves satire, and that includes all religions.

Here is a sample of images of past front pages of Charlie Hebdo, showing the diversity of sarcasm towards all who deserve sarcasm: (click here to open an enlarged view of these images)
Charlie Hebdo front pages

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Cat, the Commie

We were sitting by the pool at the house that my new acquaintance managed in Merida, Mexico. She had invited me over since we had become friends during the past month. She and I had some things in common, some fundamental alienation from America culture. That is why she had spent most of the last 20 years of her life in Mexico and before that, another 20 years, having taken a brief hiatus sometime in her thirties or forties. She was now 68.

She talked frenetically and it was often hard to follow her thoughts. She threw out names and stories, often without enough context. I was always asking her: “Who was that? When did that happen? Where were you then?”

She averred that she was a communist. More than that she would not reveal about her exact political analysis. And being a sometime Hegelian-Marxist….I refrained from inquiring, lest she condemn me. She often appeared angry or irritated. She would raise her voice, grow emotional and yet, it was understandable. You see, she was a recovering alcoholic and drug addict.

Her name was Catalina and she grew up in SoCal….near Seal beach. Her father was an alcoholic and her mother she did not talk much about. Cat began drinking heavily at the age of 13 and regularly had black-outs which she told me…..she thought of as normal. There is much I don’t know about her. Once, she quickly mentioned that she had a gun pointed in her face in Mexico. Maybe her Mexicano boyfriend was a Cartel member? She didn’t go into it.

But I do know that she is angry. Cat regularly goes to AA meetings…..which is good. She had been attending them for some 15-20 years, again she is a bit vague on the topic. Of course, she claims she is also ADHD and so it is a bit challenging to put together a straight bio of her life as I get bits and pieces here and there as she leapfrogs from anecdote to anecdote.

She tells me of a recent AA meeting here in the city of Merida where she was the only woman present. They were having a discussion about some practical matter and there was supposed to be a vote on a proposal, it being seconded….but one particular cigarette smoking fellow named Hal who did not follow procedure….kep talking and wouldn’t allow a vote on the proposal. So, Cat pointed it out to him.

“The proposal has been seconded, so it’s time to vote,” Cat urged. “Oh, and who appointed you leader, Mom!!???”
“Fuck you, Hal!” Cat blurted out.
“You can’t say that!” another man chimed in.

“Of course you can,” Cat said. “People talk like that at AA meetings all the time!” The other men stared at the floor, mute.
“Well, are we gonna fucking vote or not?” she belted out.

Again silence.

And with that, Cat stalked out of the meeting. “Fucking idiots!” she muttered as she returned home just six blocks away.

Often, she interrupts my stories as well as her own and we sometimes forget what exactly we were talking about. She laughs and admits that this is a terrible habit of hers. We talk while we are in her pool. Well, not her pool. It is the pool of the owner for whom she is managing the house I referenced earlier.

You see, she became friends with the couple who owned the place. The wife allowed her to live there without having to pay anything as the house was gigantic and there were several empty bedrooms. So, her rich friend told her: “Hell, just live here. Why not? My husband is a bore and besides, he won’t even care or notice.”
Her husband was a philanderer, often out womanizing in any case, very common practice in Mexico, married or not.

But back to Cat. So, Cat stayed with her new friend. And eventually, her friend died. Her friend’s husband, now very elderly and after suffering seven heart attacks, decided to move back to the U.S. His children agreed to let Cat be the caretaker. After all, she was honest and who else could they trust.? They themselves wanted no part of the mess. Maybe they were well off. Certainly, they did not want to live in Mexico.

They wanted to sell the place and put it up on the market of $800,000 which, of course, is a fortune in Mexico. It was a huge property in downtown Merida but you could not tell from the street, of course.
As in many old city centers in the Old World where houses shared common walls, what lay behind the front doors when closed and sealed was mystery. And this house extended a half block back and then veered right (an L shape with a series of other rooms, storage and other). In addition, it had a elevated patio with multiple rooms and a spectacular garden and of course, a pool.

Cat was responsible for maintaining the residence and also paying the bills and dealing with the realtor who was having a difficult time trying to sell the damn place. She had a regular employee who did most of the maintenance and catering required, a nice Mayan man named Daniel who didn’t drink, a real plus for a poor fellow in Mexico.

Even after they halved the asking price to $400,000, they got very few people inquiring about the place. I mean, the maintenance on the place, given its age, is fairly substantial—the gardens, the pool, the ancient plumbing and electrical grid.

Remember, this is Mexico where things have been patched up for decades and decades without, most often, much care given to things. Hire a cheap Mexican laborer to patch things up. Then when things get fucked up, hire two Mexican laborers to patch it up. Something like that. Mexican laborers do not make much money. But many know what they are doing and can do the temporary fix which is what most people do mostly because that is all they want to do. They prefer not to spend much money on anything. This is not America.

If you want to fix something seriously? Oh shit. You would have to spend thousands and thousands and maybe tens of thousands…..tear into walls, underneath the floors…..and God knows what you might find. This process goes on in America also with older homes. So you can only imagine what it is like in Mexico….when these structures were built…100 years ago? 200 years ago.

And the electrical grids in Merida like many cities are a hodgepodge of affairs. Here in Merida, you see workers climbing ladders and replacing wires and cables every day on some street. Updating to fiber optic some people say. Replacing old cables. It has gone on for over a year now and maybe ten years….god….who is counting. Something is always being replaced.

Drainage systems? I have been told that there are no pipes draining water away. There are just holes, maybe caverns. Hell, I don’t know how this works. I can tell you that many streets flood in heavy rain. This is the way it was in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles where I grew up in the 1960s. They did not have proper drainage systems then. But they eventually got them. I recall how they tore up the streets and how long it took to do the work.

See, that is the difference between a so-called Developed nation and an Under-Developed nation. Developed nations have good or decent or sufficient infrastructure, more or less. But who knows anymore? Things are getting worse even in developed countries. Potholes go unfixed. Sewage systems in some countries in Europe, no doubt, are ancient.

In Mexico, you can’t flush toilet paper down most toilets. It clogs things up. Underneath the house you are renting or have bought….sewer pipes are rusted, maybe cracked, possibly on the verge of breaking. My God, I smell horrific odors walking down many streets in many cities in Mexico. ‘What the hell is that?’ my brain asks after the appropriate neurons receive the malodorous sense impulses from my nostrils.

So the house where Cat lives has been reduced in price to $400,000 but still, Cat tells me…… no one wants it. It is too big. Potential buyers come in to look at it. Maybe they want to transform it into an B&B? Maybe they want to turn it into a school? A business? See, if they buy this place, how much money will they have to throw into it to make it right? That is part of the problem. The investment. The risk.

In Mexico, lots of Americans, Canadians, even Europeans come and buy what they consider cheap houses. Then, they fix them up. The ‘right’ way. Now, they have a very decent or awesome place. Then they grow old and want to return home for perhaps better medical care. They also want to see their families and be with them more. They are in their seventies and walking sometimes becomes difficult. And many end up suffering from all kinds of illnesses from eating and drinking too much, smoking cigarettes, not exercising.

Sorry for that digression in case you did not find this background….exactly…..well, mesmerizing.

“Shit,” Cat says, “I can’t sell the fucking house!” Which is a blessing actually. She lives there for free and even gets paid for the work she does which turns into a nearly full-time job in her mind since she counts the hours she even has to think or worry about something. It’s stressful and god-damn it, there is no man in her life either.

She stands six foot, two inches tall, towering above my 5’ 7” frame and has a limp due to her sciatic nerve. Soon, Cat plans to return to the Bay Area to see a doctor and to take a break and live in a friend’s house…more care-taking while her friend takes a vacation. Cat is a bit gangly with the tall body she has to pull around and her gait is a bit twisted as she walks.

Cat let me use her internet to teach English since I was having problems with mine where I was living about a half mile or a tad more from her. I was introduced to her by a couple male friends I had previously met, one an obese and pleasant but very opinionated American, the other a quiet Dutch fellow…..both married to Mexicanas by the way…and these extranjeros sounded very well-traveled.

My acquaintances seemed to convey a silent warning about Cat. They didn’t say that much about her. But Cat and I discovered we had let unorthodox lives, her much more so, of course, as she had become a communist early in her life. She thinks Stalin was no worse than Americans who took Indian lands and helped to eliminate them one way or another. When I mention to her that most Indians in the New World were wiped out by disease, she says, “Oh really? Who told you that?”

Of course, I have read a lot, being a history major…. and continue to do so. There are actually historic primary sources documenting many of the diseases Indians died from since they did not have the natural antibodies to fight off the diseases. Even measles or chicken pox could decimate villages, not to mention the plague and other illnesses.

But back to Cat, the commie.

As I said in my introduction, Cat had invited me over to her nice pool which I had enjoyed several times in the past month and we were conversing about all matters of things, often taking diversions on tangential topics and forgetting the point each one was trying to make or relate. And, no, we were not stoned. Just loquacious and verbose, lonely souls ready for some radical social perspectives and commentary which were difficult to hear much about these days.

(You know, sometimes it’s nice to think that some of the virtues and ideals from the sixties are still alive….even if just simmering).

I told her a story of taking the BART in San Francisco south to San Mateo and meeting a homeless person which inspired her to share her own anecdote about traveling on the same mass transportation service, having spent considerable time also growing up in Oakland. She even told me of hanging out at Raider games with Al Davis and his friends. But now she condemned football as nothing but ‘war’ and detested the violence therein.

Her harsh condemnation of football had surprised me but I let that go. Hell, I am a huge NFL fan. Didn’t want to argue with a commie, ex-addict about that.

But back to her story.

She says she was getting on the BART when she saw a woman who lay on one of the bench seats and who was very still. Cat told me, “Hell, I thought she was dead! Her face was all puffed up red and disfigured! And you know, there was a BART security guard right there talking with a another couple about the Giants, you know the baseball team!!”

I nodded my head as if to say, ‘Yes, I understand.”

Cat looked at me and commented, “Well, doesn’t that shock you?” She looked at me a bit perturbed.
“No, not really,” I commented.

“It doesn’t shock you that you the security guard was ignoring this woman, totally oblivious to her state and just babbling on about baseball?” she accused.

“Well, no because I have seen people in authority and in their jobs ignore all kinds of things that they should be paying attention to,” I replied, a bit irritated myself at her tone.

“Well, then, another Latino couple got on the train,” she continued. “They were young and were kissing and such and really didn’t appear to notice the woman laying on the bench.”

She continued:

“Well, I was fuming and got up and told the security guard about the woman but he just shook his head as if affirming he was aware of the situation. But he didn’t do anything, not even investigate the situation,” Cat asserted, now getting quite upset.

I listened to her story, taking it all in.

“You mean that this does not surprise you at all!” she inquired of me once again as I gawked at her. She obviously expected some serious reaction from me that she was not getting.

Meanwhile, I was thinking: ‘The security guard probably deals with this crap and worse on a daily basis. After a while, he just gave up caring’. But I kept this to myself….seeing Cat get upset made me think that I had best keep my honest opinions to myself.

Well, about now, I was feeling a bit under attack as if I was having a conversation with one of my wives during my marriages and did not happen to react in the way they expected me to.
I guess I was not showing Cat some empathy for her feelings which, to be honest, I didn’t quite understand.

I mean, why was she so angry? Granted she had abused drugs and alcohol for many years and I wondered if this was the source of her anger. Nah, it went much deeper, her whole fucked-up childhood….and adulthood it sounded like.

I again explained to her, now somewhat defensively, “Do you expect me to have the same reaction you had?”
“Well, don’t you care that the guard wasn’t doing his job?”

“Cat, the guy was obviously an asshole and didn’t care. What else do you want me to say?”
She looked at me, unmollified. Then, she said, “Well, then this woman who I thought might be dead, got up and took out a meth pipe and lit it! And the Latino guy got up, went over to her and told her to stop smoking, otherwise he would knock her out!!”

I was now stupefied at the turn this story was taking. And worse, Cat went on.
“And if he hadn’t, I would have,” she declared matter of factly. “Finally, at the next stop, the security guard ushered the woman off the train. Can you imagine that!”

Still feeling the shock that she could get so angry that she would turn violent against a woman who she had previously given up for the possibility of being dead….I didn’t know what to say. At this point, our interaction morphed into a argument and, for the life of me, I could not understand why she was so angry at me.
‘What did I do wrong?’ I wondered. I even asked her.

She then turned on me, “What’s wrong with you and why are you so angry? You’re the one that has made this an argument!”

Shit. This was shades of my first wife, the MFT, the one who railed at me and physically attacked me when I did not quite see things her way.

So, I announced that it was time for me to leave and got up. That was the last I heard from Cat except a terse message she sent by phone: “I am sorry for my part in our argument.”

Hell, I still wonder, what was ‘my part’? But when it comes to examining the emotions of a angry woman, sorry I get lost. I don’t think that this is what the French meant when they said, ‘Vive le difference’.

I did send over a message by email to Cat explaining that she should not expect me to have the same reactions to things that she had. I was nice. I told her that I thought she was ‘cool’. But apparently that was not sufficient for her. She wanted me to admit that I was partly responsible for the confrontation. First off, I wasn’t and second of all, I had no intention of wanting to hang out with here any more even if she had a pool and it was refreshing.

Just as well. As a friend of mine told me when I described the incident: “RUN! You don’t want to deal with an ex-alcoholic, ex-drug addict!”

I couldn’t agree more. I think people are entitled to their own opinions even in cases when they are stupid, ignorant, or angry like Cat. I just don’t want to be around them. Hell, you really can’t expect people to agree with you on all matters. And if a Commie woman wants to knock out a meth addict, I might not agree but when I am a guest at her house, I really don’t want to argue vehemently about a social problem or whatever you want to call it.

It just isn’t polite. Hell, it’s not like I am married to the woman. Thank God.

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Alabama Roy Weekly Update

Alabama Roy continues his expose on the virtues of Donald Trump.

Posted in Morning Thoughts, Satire | Leave a comment