Drug warriors set up bases in states, despite declared endless U.S. War

Below is a map of Mexican drug cartel presence throughout the United States, courtesy of NPR. The Obama administration--Attorney General Eric Holder, in fact--has said it won't pursue raiding and closing clinics that distribute marijuana for medicinal purposes to clients with legal prescriptions--obviously, compliance with individual state laws, the two being Maine and California, is expected. And fortunately (FINALLY), someone from our government, Secretary of State Clinton, has actually admitted that we are in part responsible for the influence, power, financial success, and most certainly the violence of the cartels due to our country's fiending for drugs and nauseating abundance of fire-arms that are smuggled to Mexico every year. Holder said of these cartels back in February, "They are lucrative. They are violent. And they are operated with stunning planning and precision." So a lot of it is our fault.

OK, now take into account the already sweeping infiltration of these drug slingers who, says the NPR map, "deal only in wholesale distribution in the U.S. -- and farm out street sales to various U.S. gangs." Also consider the billions of dollars the government spends on its "drug war." Clearly demand hasn't abated, and the money disbursed to try and stop narcotic imports isn't working as well as an investment of that magnitude should work. So, if the cartels' business and violent reach is so broad, and the demand for drugs is thriving and lucrative, and billions of taxpayer dollars go towards yet another failed "war" pursued by the few at the expense and disapproval of the many, then why do we, the citizenry, allow it to go on?

Visit the NPR report for a state-by-state breakdown of cartel locations.

(Note: I support the legalization of marijuana ONLY. However, given the considerable number of side-effects caused by pharmaceutical products and the violence, destruction, death, and endless embarrassment induced by alcohol, I'm not convinced that either are much worse than hard drugs like meth, cocaine, herione, ecstasy, etc. And, really, if a prescription antidepressant can actually cause suicide in some cases--which is hastily mentioned in ads--then what is the big difference between Zoloft and LSD? (Lobbyists, that's what!))

Remember this?

Six years ago today, U.S. military action against Iraq began. Since then over 4,000 Americans soldiers and marines have died, some 31,000 have been wounded, and countless Iraqi civilians have been hurt or lost their lives. For or against this war, these fatal statistics are not debateable. For a full list of U.S. military victims for whom we all owe our respect, visit AntiWar.com.



(For those of you with cast iron stomachs and nonexistent gag-reflexes, if you really want to see the kind of devastating shit that happens to people in war zones, click here. WARNING: These are real photographs of dismembered and mutilated bodies and corpses. I found the site by mistake looking for the type of chart/list that's posted above. I only scanned a few images before having to turn my head and close the window. It's gruesome, and something any motherfucker with the authority to declare war should be forced to look at before deciding to immerse his country into a conflict in which it might be ill-prepared.

You know, on this sixth anniversary of America's most recent imperialistic military foray, and given Cheney's recent media rounds and criticizing of Obama, there's only one thing to say to the Bush administration and all the policticians and officials that supported the invasion of Iraq: FUCK YOU.)

My answer to ESPN columnist's QOTW

ESPN.com hockey columnist Pierre Lebrun's Question of the Week asks readers, "Which NHL game will you always remember seeing in person?" His involves showing up to a Montreal Canadians game and wathing some skinny, no-named goalie named Patrick Roy--before Roy went on to win three Stanley Cups and cement his reputation as a mega-huge asshole. My answer? Well, the abbreviated version got sent to Lebrun's feedback column, which was lifted from the elongated take below:

It snowed heavily on December 5, 2002, in and around Philadelphia. My roommate—a teammate whose dad was/is a top pro scout for the Flyers—and I drove from Hershey, PA, to Philly to watch the Flyguys face the Rangers. We’d seen countless games before, but tonight was different. Not only was it going to be the first, and likely the last, time to see Hall of Famer Mark Messier play, but we’d gotten some fine seats: high above rink side in the press box, NHL statisticians counted shots to our left, Bobby Clarke, my buddy’s dad, and the rest of the Flyers brass in Clarke’s suite to our right. And this was all after dining in the team’s mess hall in the bowels of the then-First Union Center (now Wachovia) with the likes of Gary Thorne, Al Morganti, and Bill Clement. (Hockey's version of a Monday Night Football crew.)

It was a predictable game between the division rivals that include some fights, the usual chippiness that plagued the NHL pre-lockout, and one of the most incredible behind-the-back-passes and some of the smoothest skating I’ve ever seen from a 40-something Messier. It was Eric Lindros’s first visit since his turbulent exit from Philly; the volume of boos convulsed the arena. Young Kim Johnsson, who’d arrived with Pavel Brendl earlier that year after Clarke finally dealt Lindros, brokeout from behind the Flyers’ net—minded that night by Robert Esche (I think). He weaved through the neutral zone, and, from the top of the slot between the circles, rifled a shot off the Ranegrs’ post. No goal by Johnsson, but a fine display of the talent and style that would eventually phase out the Derian Hatchers of the NHL. A game worth the three-hour drive in thick slush and icy roads.

But it required an extra session. At this point, you’ll remember, overtime was still 5-on-5 and ties quite common. Not tonight. Midway through the stanza, now-Los Angeles King Michal Handzus was awarded a penalty shot. The young eastern European who’d garnered Flyer-fan support with his floppy afro could win the game right here. The only thing between Handzus and the eruption of the sell-out crowd? Dan Blackburn, who spent more time in Mike Richter’s shadow than between the pipes.

The whistle blows and Handzus approaches from center ice, stick handling calmly yet deliberately, not barreling with speed but instead precise strides. Blackburn skates in reverse as the crowd, silent and on its feet, anticipates the first move. It’s Handzus, a left-hand shooter; dropping his left shoulder, he drags the puck to his forehand. Blackburn bites just enough; Handzus pulls it to his backhand and shelves it. Only one other regular season overtime game in NHL history had ended on a penalty shot. Handzus had just ended the second.

It’s not every day a routine divisional match-up ends with enough antics to create history. But combined with the exhilaration of Lindros’s return, a graceful, twilight-of-his-career performance by Mess, and weather conditions that closed schools for days, surely result in the one game I will “always remember seeing in person.”

Execs shout & murmur

Anyone who's head has only penetrated a few inches of sand is aware of, and spastic from, the economic calamity shaking our nation like a misbehaved child (at first the sense of that metaphor wasn't totally clear). And who can say they don't know of someone whose job has been discarded--perhaps their own--or whose employer hasn't grown increasingly fidgety, striving to readjust, as much as possible, to comfortably sustain itself before having to have uncomfortable conversations with soon-to-be-former employees? Probably no one. And that is why this New Yorker column by Patricia Marx is funny. Because at this point, given the relentless negativity fed to the media consuming populace, the absurd shit the "C.E.O" speaks of could soon be less absurd.

Shouts & Murmurs

Memo from the C.E.O.

by Patricia Marx

March 9, 2009

It is with deep regret that we inform you of certain cost-cutting measures that will be taken in the coming days so that we can remain competitive. But first some good news. We are happy to report that Bring Your Child to Work Day has been renamed Bring Your Child to Do Work Day. We hope you will contribute unstintingly to the Gummy Bears Overtime Fund.

Now for the harsh realities. We will no longer be serving complimentary cold cuts and soda on Cold Cuts and Soda Day. Stairs will go up, but not down. Please do not use the fire extinguisher unless there is no water in the toilets. Anyone wishing to put out a medium-to-large fire must first fill out form X34J (if in stock). Mr. Johnson and Mr. Green, you will be sharing a desk chair, although you may keep separate desks. With regard to our annual retreat, spouses of non-management employees will be considered luggage. The letters “K,” “Q,” and “Z” are costly and should be used sparingly. Anyone who would like to volunteer for the human weather-stripping experiment, contact Nan Newberg. Also, as of next Wednesday, there will be no Wednesdays.

A number of you have asked about the employee-suggested programs that were implemented last year. While we were all heartened by their popularity—yay, associate assistants!—most of them will be suspended. These include: Kitten Appreciation Moment, Say Hello Day, and the Mandatory Toilet Paper in the Rest Rooms Policy. We are particularly saddened that elevator privileges for housekeeping will once again be on a pay-to-play basis. In order to maintain company morale, however, the mojito fountain in the executive lounge will continue to operate as usual.

The “Don’t Leave Your Coffee Cups on Joan Fulenwider’s Desk: It’s Not a Trash Can (Well, It Kind of Is!)” rule will remain in place, although, as of next week, Ms. Fulenwider will not. We are all sad to see Ms. Fulenwider go, but can we agree that this is a blessing in disguise, since, clearly, it is now or never for her as far as starting a family goes? Good luck, Joan, and kindly return the stapler on your way out.

Mr. Pepall, every day is now casual Friday for you. In fact, you don’t even have to bother getting out of bed. If time is money, mazel tov—you are now a rich man.

To those of you in Quality Control: As indicated by the new sign in your rest room, employees must wash their hands before not returning to work. If you don’t understand what that means, ask Mr. Pepall.

It has come to our attention that certain persons feel that executive-compensation packages have been unduly awarded. Management has zero tolerance for negativity. Moreover, now is not the time to play “the blame game.” In days like these, we must tighten our belts and be team players. Note: Anyone who received a signing bonus will be required to return it, posthaste, with interest. In fairness, senior V.P.s were asked to give back the income from last year’s exercised options, but they concluded that the calculation would be difficult and onerous.

Finally, we’d like to announce, with tremendous relief, that once Mr. Pepall and the folks in Quality Control go (and after Mr. Sonnenfeld is replaced with voice mail) no further layoffs are foreseen this quarter. From now on, however, we will operate as a “Stage 2 Company.” Anyone wishing to retain his or her job must therefore: (1) obtain an updated photo I.D. (available through Mr. Pepall) and (2) furnish your own salary.

Reminder to members of the Stage 2 Planning Committee: Please let us know whether you prefer swordfish or steak, aisle or window, silver or gold.

We believe these adjustments will result in a stronger, more resilient company. Just think: If every employee could give us merely half of his or her life savings, we would be on the road to a “solution mode”! So let’s put the bad times behind us and all move forward, except for the following persons (see attached).

Have a nice day. ♦

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Some Background...

It’s August 2001, five friends and I take a week long adventure to San Diego—in the college area near San D State U—to visit one of our best friends, Kyle, who’d moved there after high school with his brother. We invaded Ocean and Pacific Beaches, squirmed as elephants shit and walked simultaneously at the famous San Diego Zoo, and drank cheap buckets of Corona and bought Mexican wrestling masks (think "Nacho Libre") and nickel-priced gum packets from roaming children in Tijuana. After seven days, I was hooked on So Cal. It was the most alluring place I’d ever been—waves, burritos, and women hotter than the sun. Surfing infected my life and hasn’t stopped. I’ve been visiting there several times yearly ever since to surf and hang out. I've gotten to the Trestles WCT contest a few times and even spent a short stint hoboing at Kyle’s for two months in fall 2005, when I really learned about the region.

Nobody really gives a shit about me, but I wanted to explain my infatuation with the west coast and my motivation to relocate there one day soon. It’s also why much of the surfing content on this blog has a Cali slant to it.

A Few Thoughts On...

Mary Jane...

Salon.com ran an interview today given by Katharine Mieszkowski to California State Legislator Tom Ammiano from San Francisco. Ammiano is the lawmaker who recently introduced a bill that would decriminalize marijuana in the Golden State, thus creating a taxable industry that fingers some $14 billion annually. Ammiano also points out that legalizing the herb would lower non-violent incarceration rates and inmate maintenance costs, along with “the money you would save in law enforcement by regulating marijuana, decriminalizing it and putting those resources into serious crimes.”

Now, so far, this sounds like a reasonable option (one I mostly agree with). And really who wants to be mocked? (Answers Ammiano in one question, "other countries laugh at us for our drug laws. Britain, Canada, the Netherlands and most of Europe have very liberalized drug laws in and around harm reduction.") But this interview spawned some lingering questions:

After marijuana is legalized, reaping an estimated $1 billion in additional tax revenue, freeing millions of dollars commissioned to serve in the War on Drugs, eventually sold in nice hard or soft packs in liquor stores next to the Dom and Colt 45, what happens to the drug dealers that made money slinging drugs on the corner? How do they replace the wads of loot they brought home every night? Basically, what do the employees of the black market do?

It seems that, in a sense, street dealers making modest money selling weed will end up like many Wall Street execs: forced into a lower standard of living because their job was eliminated. What’s their next product for sale: crack, meth, heroin, pharmaceuticals?

Makes for a different perspective of pot as a “gateway” drug.

(Update: April 27 -- Could confidently wager a significant amount that a lot of pot dealers already sell more than herb.)

Films, fun, & frothing

Last summer, during an operational hiatus of my full-on assault on every job opening that I could find, I detoured to a Web site about a movie. No idea how I found it, just know it's a byproduct of total consumption with online surfing content. The film, called “Under the Sun,” is a documentary focusing its lens on two dichotomous, but closely linked, regions of eastern Australia: the Goldcoast, a hub of professional surfing commercialism, and Byron Bay, a “hippy Mecca” of free surfers 60 miles south of the Goldie. At the crux: what led to the diverging, often competitive and acrimonious, cultures unique to these two places?

UTS was in post-production when I read about it in August. It premiered on September 11, 2008, in Laguna Beach, CA. Since then, it’s been plugging into the film-festival circuit to energize publicity for its DVD release. Cyrus Sutton, the producer/filmer/editor of the project is self-taught—a self-proclaimed traveling-filming surfer cliché. Scott Bass from Surfer magazine interviewed Sutton for “In the Lineup,” Surfer’s audio and visual podcast a while back. Sutton discusses some of the film’s undertones and what drew him to the story. The trailer is posted below. Sutton interviews some of surfing's most famous ppersonalities, old and new, from former ASP President Rabbit Bartholomew to culture-crosser Dave Rastovich. UTS examines a fascinating area of the surfing world as it offers its take on an old dilemma of the conflicitng archetypes of modern surfing: for money or love, and can there be room enough for both?

For any Central Cal residents, UTS will be featured at the San Luis Obispo Film Festival on March 12th. SLO’s organizers are quick to mention that UTS won “Best Action Sports Film at the Newport Beach Film Festival and Best Independent Film at the Huntington Beach Surf Film Festival in 2008.”

A last quick note: On Saturday, March 14th, the Philadelphia Surf & Snow Film Festival will take place at the Mandell Theater on the campus of Drexel University in University City. (Closer to my hood.) The lineup is varied and includes “One Track Mind,” Chris Malloy’s newest direction released by Woodshed films. Tickets to either viewing session cost $25. The first runs from 2pm-6pm, the second from 7pm-11pm.

Check them out if you can. It's decent entertainment that helps advance the careers of burgeoning action sports filmmakers.

UTS trailer: