dickssaga.com

I’am back after my journey in the land of Oz. It was a strange experience and one worth commenting on I think. First, let me tell you that the land of Oz for me is Facebook. I entered it wide-eyed, awash with the possibilities. Indeed, I participated with a fulsome effort. 

So, while in Oz, I set up a group, the Cultis Mountain Mystics. I wanted a nonpolitical, non religious place where people could post beautiful art, music, stunning design, and basically those things that make the spirit soar. And, it seems that some people enjoyed it as the membership slowly climbed to about 125 or so. Nice people, interesting people, sharing things. I liked it. 

Now I don’t claim an overwhelming knowledge of all forms of media, but I did teach the subject for a dozen years and I do know a little about influencing people through advertising. I know all about Rage Against the Machine and a New Morning in America. I figured other folks must too ‘cuz hell, I’m not all that bright.. I figured Monroe’s Motivated Sequence was sort of an icon for mind control. I thought most folks would recognize it.

I was shocked when I saw an abundance of these techniques being used in “mems” posted all over FB. These all seemed to have the same touchstone, Fox “news.” So, I started watching Fox “news.” Wow, after a short time I was in awe. Right here in the middle of America, with everyone watching, all of the discoveries of mind manipulation were being delivered on a daily bases to a group of eager recipients. My god, Pavlov would weep with the beauty of it all.

In the comments section of various posting I asked several people “Do you watch Fox “news?”

The most common answer I got was “Yeah, but I watch other stuff too,” or “whadda you watch, CNN?”

So, when I answered, in an attempt to be all knowledgable and worldly as hell I would inform them that I had digital subscriptions the the NYT, WP and Seattle paper, as well as reading widely online. Now here I must say that was a broadly answered question to a specific question but I figured he wanted to know where I got my information. 

The strength of response to my questioning about Fox “news” surprised me somewhat. Some people said things like “I haven’t watched it in months” or “That’s an insulting question.” Wow, it was like I asked them if they were doing smack. This got me thinking about addiction.

Once of the first signs of addiction is that you keep doing it even though there are negative consequences. Now most folks who watch Fox are older white folks. I’m an older white folk myself so I recognize the species. Old people get sick, old people die of Covid 19, but these same people, knowing the dangers of going to a Trump rally, joyfully go to them and not wear a mask as a political statement. That, my brothers and sisters is some sick shit. But, it shows you the power of Fox “news” to completely brainwash it’s viewers. I kid you not, I saw this with my own eyes in the land of Oz.

So, I saw these things with my own eyes, as I said above. So, I thought, I should tell the people what is being done to them. They deserve to know. So I did, I tried to tell them. I shouted “Hey, they’re not telling you the real shit” I jumped up and down and waved my arms. I made clever things so it would be obvious.

I was somewhat perplexed when they didn’t thank me. Maybe they knew about Monroe’s Motivated Sequence Already. But they said things like “Other networks slant the news too.” or, “You some kinda libtard or liberal?”

Well, yeah, I’m some kinda liberal. I didn’t know how deeply their understanding of spectrum analysis might go, but I figured it was probably one of those binary things you hear about these days.  

So, in the end Fox “news” defeated me and I left. I ceded the field to a stronger opponent. I am truly in awe of their power of mind control. But here is the interesting thing to ask yourself, why does Fox exist? Who comes up with the daily talking points? Who sets the agenda?

They have identified a great demographic, the religious right. Fertile ground for mind control games. Eschew the elite, because they are dangerous, they think, they may figure us out.

Who is pulling the strings behind the scenes that you don’t see? Not the Koch brothers, they’re just someone’s tools, dig a little deeper.

Center for Responsible American Politics

May 20, 2020

by Guy Fawkes

In a closely held memo distributed to key individuals and media producers by by the Senate GOP campaign arm, the NRSC pushed for completion of the secretive disinformation project euphemistically known to insiders as the FPP Project. The FPP, or Fully Programmed People project was the creation of long time Republican political consulting firm of Brett O’Donnell. The project has taken on a greater significance with the fall elections rapidly approaching where recent polling has shown the President falling behind Joe Biden in key swing states and some Republican senators such as Az Senator Martha McSally are vulnerable. 

When questioned about the existence of the FPP project, Jesse Hunt, an NRSC spokesman

Jesse Hunt said that they routinely send out different sources of information dozens of times each week. Hunt tried to veer away from questions concerning a 57-page memo authored by the O’Donnell firm which attempts to deflect blame for Trump’s mishandling of the covid-19 crisis by accusing China for it’s handling of the virus.

This was the latest example of an ongoing strategy utilizing a wide range of disinformation tactics centered on social media such as radio talk shows, Facebook, Fox, and sympathetic media outlets such as the New York Post and right wing blogs. The key to the success of the strategy has been the ability to tightly control the message and include just enough truth to keep messaging believable. 

The FPP project has found greatest success in faith based and low education voters, primarily in the southern and upper midwestern states. Key elements have been the sewing distrust of anyone with advanced education or expertise in a specific field. This has included a push for private education initiatives where potential Republican voters are easily programmed at an early age. 

Pew polling in 2019 indicated that 59% of Republicans now have a low opinion of a college or university education. The FPP project has collaborated with the influential right wing conservative religious organizations such as the Southern Baptist convention to encourage people to rely on their faith for simple answers to complex social or political problems. This has facilitated a greater number of voters who will not attempt to bring critical thinking skills into the voting booth, but rather vote as “fully programmed people.”

Citing the success of the FPP project at the clandestine annual meeting hosted by the Koch brothers at Indian Wells, a former Marine general joked that It wouldn’t matter if news of the FPP project were splashed across the front page of the New York Times, laughing as he said “Our people don’t read and we tell them what to think.”

So, I’ve had people request copies of these two painting from Blaine. Would you rather have inexpensive copies or would you rather have a limited edition of 25 sets at $60 a set of two, numbered and signed. I’m good either way, but I don’t want to do both. The reason the limited editions would cost so much is because it costs $30 per picture set up and then $15 per copy on high quality paper. Let me know if you have an interest. Dick

So, a couple of years ago I started to learn watercolor, not that the world needs another watercolor artist, but this artist needed to learn watercolor, so there it is.

We took the good ship Ella Marie out to the San Juans and dropped the hook over in Blind Bay at Shaw Island. Directly across the channel was the ferry landing for Orcas Island. It became the victim of my efforts.

Well, I’ll be damned. I didn’t realize how many folks had tried to register. Apparently there has been a kerfuffle and the registration did not work properly. That being said, I did receive an email each time a person attempted to register, so I have cut and pasted your email addresses and will try and fix it.

My email is dick@dickssaga.com. Please feel free to contact me there.

So, I have a question and I asked this with all the curiosity in the world. Why did you register for this site? Was it because of the stories, the art, the photographs or what? If you wouldn’t mind helping me here, you can answer by clicking on the top of this post, which will open a comments box. Either that or you can email me. The reason I’m asking is I simply want to know what people enjoy. Thanks, Dick

Killers
I was young, 14, but I didn’t think I was that young at the time. I mean, I look at a 14 year old now and I think, “Damn, that’s young.” But at the time I was oblivious about what should be expected for a kid at a that what age. If you could do it, you just did it. Everything else was more or less external to my world. Well, except when I had to lie about my age on the Washington State Commercial Fishing License. You had to be 16. Get the cuffs.

So, it was the summer of my 14the year and I had been drafted by my brother Ron to be the skiff man on the good ship Verlaine II. I could be had cheap, a half share. Truthfully, I was happy to get that.

The Verlaine II was, to be charitable, a modest seiner. She had a power block which was a step up from the turntable and power roller on the old Popeye. The wheel house was basically a box that had miraculously fitted in a stove, sink, table, two benches and helm. A salesman would say cozy.

The summer started out in sort of a lazy routine where we’d run out into Boundary Bay early in the morning. It was always chilly on the run out with all the surfaces still wet with dew. Before long you’d start to see the other seiners silhouetted against the purple light of the sunrise. The air was cool and crisp with only occasionally unbreathable with diesel fumes.

The local seiners, the Myrtle, Rio Rita, Caroline and others would emerge from the darkness, recognizable by their silhouette long before their color or name on the bow.

Before long Ron’d say “Warm ‘er up.”

I’d tumble down off the rigging and drop on the deck, scramble over the seine and drop into the skiff. Pull out the choke, spin ‘er over, cough, sputter, bang…rumble rumble. From then on my world was looking up waiting for someone on deck pulling the pelican hook and starting a set.

Brother Ron would scan the horizon, judge the tide, calculate the wind, read the omens, and then an increase in the speed of the engine and hi ho silver, we’re off to the races, seeking to encircle the wily salmon. Someone on deck would pull the pelican release and the net would stream off the back of the boat, brass rings bouncing.

Knowing I was 14 and nearly clueless, Ron would use full arm gestures to direct how he wanted me to pull the end of the seine. The finger gestures were saved for closer range.

I loved seining, truly. I loved the rings coming up on deck and the net streaming up out of the water. I’d look to see if there were bubbles along the cork line. I’d pray for jumpers. I longed to use the brailler. To scoop a hundred sockeye at a time. Alas, normally we’d strap ‘em or roll them on deck. But we made lots of sets and the thirty or forty fish a set would add up by the end of the day.

Now this day was different. We were going to be leaving the friendly confines of Bounding Bay as we referred to it and head to the outside of Point Roberts. I think it was the Adam’s River run of sockeye. Anyway, all the usual suspects were there plus a few boats from down south. There were a lot of fish. People wanted them and da people weren’t the only ones who wanted those fat, juicy reds. The Orca were in town and this was the first time I’d ever encountered them.

We were on the west side of the Point with the tide setting south, safe from being carried across the line into Canada and nabbed by the Canadian fisheries patrol. If they caught you, you’d be taken up the Fraser to Steveston where there was all sorts of legal fun awaiting you.

We waited our turn and then Ron took ‘er in close to the beach and “let her go.” I turned the skiff toward the beach and we swept south hoping to scoop up a good jag of fish. We swept along the shore with Ronny urging me closer to the beach with the skiff.

So, there I was, Little Dicky Walsh out on the end of the seine in the skiff as the Cascades turned from purple to blue in the morning light. I was pleased that I’d started to close up before we got to the sharp turn separated the west side of the point from South Beach because there were some fair sized rocks there that ate purse lines. It seems like its always when I’ve finally got something figured out is when it happens. I saw God.

God was in the form of an orca, orca my ass, it was a KILLER WHALE. It rose straight from the depths about fifty feet off to port to slam down on the water. I could feel its spray hitting my face. It is hard to convey the terror I felt. I didn’t scream. I didn’t shout. I gripped the the former De Soto steering wheel and waited. I waited some more. Nothing happened. I was still alive.

A short blast on Verlaine II’s horn brought me around and I saw Ron was signaling to close up faster. I pushed the throttle more and put the nose of the skiff toward the boat. I got along side and threw up the tow line, waited for them to take a turn around the winch and then pulled the quick release. They raised the Verlaine’s seine line and I ran the skiff under it to pick up the tow off line.

My next job was to pull the Verlaine to keep her out of the middle of the corks. So, there I was, sitting on the engine cover, looking back at the guys on deck while I eased out to the end of the tow line. No one had looked upset. Didn’t they know how close I’d come to instant death? I’m sure it was close I could even smell its breath. Yeah, THAT close. They didn’t even act like it was no big thing. They acted like it was no thing.

I warmed my butt by sitting on the engine cover while I drank from my thermos of cocoa. The engine kept a low but steady pull on the larger boat as they brought the seine aboard, pausing now and then to pull out a gilled salmon or mend a hole in the net. As I watched, still amazed that I was above the water and not under it.

Then came my second encounter with the wolves of the sea. Two large dorsal fins rolled between me and the boat. My god! They were coming back to finish what the first one had started! Could they get to me in time to save my scrawny ass?

I looked back toward the guys and deck and one waved, pointing to the triangle as it surfaced again in case I’d missed it the first time. Oddly, I hadn’t missed it the first time. From their obvious nonchalance even someone like me can figure out there probably isn’t much immediate danger.

Finally, the bunt started coming aboard and I got the signal to come around. That meant we had to braille. I ran the skiff around and strapped the corks to the gunwale. We used the braille a few time. You figured about a hundred fish a scoop, so if you’re talking sockeye, thats a lot of money.

I unhooked and ran the skiff back around. I tossed up the painter and they attached it to the pelican hook.

The cook came out of the cracker box wheel house with my plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, chopped up spuds. They all sort of slid around on the heavy porcelain plate as I sat on the cold former tractor seat waiting for the next set. I looked at them complete another greasy circuit on my plate and wondered to myself if I’d survived the perils of the deep only to perish at the hands of the deep fried food on my plate.

It’s just unfair to our stable genius President. I know, he has issues. But to introduce bed bugs into the conversation seems like its hitting below the belt. I mean if there were crabs in the bed, maybe it’s from Trump, but bed bugs are kind of non political. They’re a pest.
Now the fact that there has been a lawsuit about people’s reaction to the bed bugs, doesn’t count. If we have G-7 leaders there, they will go back home before they can file a lawsuit.We’re off the hook.
Tell people that we shouldn’t hassle our stable genius about the bugs in his bed. He’s had lots of creepy things in his bed, far worse than this, but thats his business.
Putin is kinda creepy, was he in his bed? The way our stable genius looks at him with longing eyes, you have to wonder.
Sure, he played “let’s make a deal” with the Ukraine to benefit him, but thats not bed bugs. True, There are those things documented in the Steele report, but there is no mention of bed bugs. No, the hookers in the Steel report just went pee-pee on Obama’s former bed while he watched! That’s not bed bugs.
The fact that his Doral National Resort HAS BED BUGS just seems like an act of desperation on the part of the Libtards. And Romney….questioning the behavior of the President. WTF, right? His own party!!! Traitor… Just because Trump is doing the bidding of Putin shouldn’t matter!!!

You may have noticed that I have been absent. I haven’t felt like writing. Truth be told, I’ve taken to heart the woes of our country. I know….it does no good to worry. I worry. I can’t help myself. And to make it worse, I feel helpless to vent my rage. Short of takin’ that PAB out behind the woodshed and kickin’ the crap out of him, wouldn’t that be a mess, there isn’t much mere mortals can do. Well, except vote. Vote we will ’cause vote we must. The only way to fight the forces of darkness.

To my far flung friends around the world, please know that I’m ashamed of the behavior that was done by our stable genius. The man has no honor, he has bone spurs instead. It truly beggars belief.

Perhaps it’s a general malaise. Leave it to the French to come up with a word that describes my general feeling. I did work therapy today to try and become happy through achievement and manly accomplishments. Instead, I hit the knuckle on my left index finger, twice. Once wasn’t enough fun apparently.

The work which has taken its toll on me is the laying of the new Trex decking. I generally work from when I feel like starting to about 1:00. Then Becky will look at me with a questing look “Hey, why’d ya stop?” I look right back and mouth “One O’clock!”

I have established 1:00 as a bench mark beyond which a man of my advanced age cannot be reasonably expected to toil. More than that would technically be overtime, and that would accrue massive “honey points.” Becky has been slow to adopt my advanced views on the topic.

OK, I’ve been working on getting some help for the website. That includes making it easier for you to comment. I hope to have the changes by Friday.

Now a lot of folks in Blaine talk about the mighty “H-Street Hill.” The more knowledgeable will see your H-Street and raise you a Harvey Hill. Steeper angle, that rock sticking up half way down, bone jarring crashes, Harvey Hill was a beast. But for me, it was Brickyard Hill in front of Dick and Laura’s house. It was just the right distance and pitch. It was my Brickyard 500. Kids made coasters and went kapootin down the hill.

We had this huge garage left over from Ken and Dad’s repair shop business. It had no organization. Even for me it was bad. Tools were strewn along the bench. There was a beat up table saw and a Craftsman floor model drill. Heavy drawers were filled with all manner of things some of which would be needed in the future, most not. It was in a word, perfect.

Now here I need to tell you, the Walsh kids were allowed to hurt themselves. Because of that I learned that when using the drill if you had too big a bit and didn’t clamp down the wood, you’d get hurt. I got hurt. I learned. From then on the wood was always clamped, to this day. You learn to figure out where the danger is without being told. That table saw looked dangerous. I was careful.

It was in this garage that I created my coasters. They were based on a 2’ x 4’ piece of plywood. I decided to create my masterpiece. I set about the task.

I had dad help me rip the plywood and set to work with the sandpaper, smoothing the edges of the board. Next you needed to add the rear axel. I had two short pieces of rod I found over at the Packers. I cut a two by four long enough to span the back of the coaster.  I lay the rod on the side, extending out far enough to accept the lawn mower tires I had salvaged. Lots of those fence staples holding it down. Next I added the tires and slipped a nail through the hole I’d carefully clamped and drilled in the axel. Then I mixed up some wood glue and nailed and glued the two by four to the plywood. 

Next came the steering. This required figuring stuff out. Measure to the center, put a pencil mark use the all metal Craftsman drill that shocked you most of the time. Then came the longer two by four with holes drilled into the end for the rope steering. I was lucky, I had an axel rod that was one piece and it was just the right length.

The steering axel as attached to the coaster with a 3/8” bolt. Big fender washers gave some clearance between the axel and plywood.I put a little grease on top of the two by four in case it touched. My version of power steering. 

Now the best part, making it beautiful. I painted the wood a dark blue. I painted it dark blue again. and it looked smooth and slippery. Then I got creative with a rattle can of silver paint. Solid in the front fading into the blue. Pretty snazzy.

It was ready, I was ready. It was a sunny fall Saturday morning. I grabbed ahold of that steering rope and headed out. It was a bit of a hike from our house, but I knew I could manage it. My journeys always seem to take awhile ‘cause there are so many interesting things along the way.

I finally arrived at Brickyard Hill only to discover another kid with his home made coaster. We looked at each other. We admired each other’s home made coaster. His was pink, like the Hawaii Kai hydro. 

He looked at me.

“Standing start or push?”

“Push”

We both line up our racers and bent over the back, steering rope in one hand.

“Go”

We pushed, we ran, we jumped on. He went whooshing down the hill. 

*Deep sigh”

The two short axels at the back of my coaster now pointed skyward and the back of my coaster rested on the cement. The fence staples I’d used were not strong enough to hold to hold the short axels. A design failure. Worse, I was the designer. My design had failed.

I held onto the steering rope and pushed my racer home like a wheel barrow. The trip home seemed quite a bit longer than the trip to the hill. But eventually I got there and leaned my racer against the wall. 

They call them adventures because you don’t know when you start how they are going to end. My adventures were not always epic, although a few were. And occasionally they failed, like the broken axels. But thats how you learn.