Republican Troops Invade NYC


What is to be Done?


Aug. 23—Perhaps you’ve already seen them: uncomfortable-looking people in bad suits and pastel leisurewear, fanny-packs on overlarge buttocks, shit-eating grins on pasty white faces, saying all the wrong things in all the wrong places.  Yes, the Republican delegates and their camp-followers are arriving in New York City, ready to celebrate and re-nominate the most corrupt and incompetent presidential administration in American history.  With 9/11 and the War on Terror as backdrop, the Bush Mob expects to make the most progressive city in the nation into a poster child for its campaign to demolish civil liberties, further enrich the rich, and turn the world into a military playground for the oil industry.  Will New Yorkers stand idly by while stupid white men run rampant in our streets?  We don’t think so.


What future has been foretold by the collapse of those World Trade Center towers?  What larger wars do the skirmishes in Afghanistan and Iraq portend?  To understand these events in any adequate way is to see frightening omens of the coming century.  The “War on Terror” could not be more aptly named—but it is not so much the suicidal hijacker or bomber who terrorizes us—though they are real enough—rather, it is the repressed knowledge, the open secret, that the entire civilization has been hijacked by mechanisms internal to it and now careens towards its own self-destructive collision and collapse.  Denying this knowledge is where the real War on Terror is being fought.


As Bertolt Brecht wrote during the Nazi rise to power, “You can’t write poems about trees if the forest is filled with policemen.”  In the months prior to the coming election, business as usual will be out of the question—the global crisis the Bush Administration is creating threatens to any day spiral out of control—indeed, they are asking, hoping, praying, for another 9/11 and—as some wags have it—“Four More Wars.”  What does it signify that the Federal Elections Commission has already begun talking about postponing the November elections in the event of terrorist activity?  Will we see martial law imposed in this country if, indeed, there is another attack on U.S. soil?  And will Americans stand for this blatant takeover?


An Invitation to Agitation


Among the politically progressive, the insane and evil Bush Mob has catalyzed a groundswell of activity, and in this, our emergency Anti-Convention Insurgency issue, The Williamsburg Observer features the images and words of some of the most vocal and committed of these fine, free people.  Join us in a dinner-party smorgasbord of rising rebellion against the hatred, greed, and stupidity that has overtaken our land.  If enough of us come together, as Patti Smith sings, “We can wrestle the Earth from fools!”  Research suggests that deep inside every Republican is a genuine human being who just wants to be loved.  With our help, perhaps these people can be restored to health. 


Ando Arike





August 2004 Anti-Convention Insurgency Issue

photo: Nancy Donskoj


In This Issue:


Reverend Billy:

Do the Right Thing, Do the Strange Thing


Berit Anderson:

Bush—Worse Than All of Them?


Carl Watson:

Drunk Call to Ted Not Made


 Tsaurah Litsky:

 The Plumber


2 by Jill Rapaport


Ben Williams:

Growing Army of 'Have Nots' Redefine What's Needed

Lex Grey:

Last Patriot


The Bindlestiff Family Circus’

Kinko the Clown:

Peaceful Protesting


The Axis of Eve:

Mission: Expose and Depose


The Republican National


Tourist Guide


Download PDF of Entire Print Issue


With work by:

Ebon Fisher

Anita DiBanco

Turk Studzel

Mona Harden

Ecume des Jours

  And more...


Williamsburg Observer Homepage



photo: Nancy Donskoj



Do the Right Thing,

Do the Strange Thing


By Reverend Billy


The farce of the political conventions is upon us.  Many progressive Americans are seen sitting in chairs staring, as if overwhelmed by an erotic memory.  There is a slight smile on the face, but an overwhelming sorrow too, and a paralysis that leaves us dreamers unable to rise and re-flesh the old days.  We dance now to recall a time of dancing; we go to the political movies to refit our anger.


John Kerry and John Edwards have dental work and surfy hair waves from the long-decaying oldie called JFK. They are The Teeth and Hair Party.  Like the other Kennedy-derivative, Bill Clinton, their centrist politics will take the word “liberal” hostage.  Innocent people may be killed at a faster rate under Bush than one hopes would be killed from the Teeth and Hair Party.  Or at least, more pictures of the dying appear in the commerical media from the Iraqi War of Bush than were seen in their misery under Clinton's globalized economy.  Profuse bleeding and starving to death get much different amounts of air time.  This is the dying difference that spurs some Americans to rise from that chair and work this year in the Democracy of Money.


Simply put: We are suffering from perspective distortions that in one person would be psychotic, in 300 million – it’s the Land of the Free.  We are so hypnotized with celebrities and Prozac that the fundamental system – the world whose laws make all the chaos possible -- escapes unnoticed.  The system doesn’t dare come out from behind its products.  Why would it take that risk?  We can’t see the system and we aren’t allowed to talk about it in the corporate press.  Corporate scandals are immediately produced as content selling more papers or air-time, as in the case of super-cook Martha Stewart or billionaire-scam artist Ken Lay.   But the real issue in this campaign of The Bush Thugs versus Teeth and Hair should be systemic.  There is a deadly emergency -- featuring war and poverty -- which comes from the official policy of both parties.


The systemic discussion that I would shout about, if my teeth and hair were to let me speak, would be the corporatization of the "Commons.”  Now in the United States, the Commons is defined as the park, street and sidewalk – public property where free speech is guaranteed by the Constitution.  In another sense, the commons is electronic -- the radio and television waves and the Internet, places where we can freely meet, which come into our homes and businesses. European citizens who have visited this country have gone through the surprise of discovering that the Commons has been stolen by the US corporations and by the militarized wing of the government which responds to the business agenda.  What has happened here resembles a post-modern expansion of a 3rd world dictatorship.  It is more and more difficult to speak to fellow citizens out of doors.  The television is nearly all commercial now, with sliver-thin free speech ghettoes on Sunday mornings or distant cable channels.  Radio is nearly monopolized by the right-wing pro-war Clear Channel, a Texas company. The Web remains safe for open discussion, although all progressive folks who go on the Net from that chair know they are surveilled by our cross-eyed terrorist fighter John Ashcroft, a Christian who covers up the breasts on female statues that stand in government buildings.


Thus the creation of points of view, or original culture, of language itself, is under attack.  This has proved dangerous in such a violent and powerful country, with a $400 billion defense budget every year.  After 9/11, there was very little dissent to the colonial wars published or broadcast anywhere in the United States.  People who criticized the Afghani bombing were fired.  Peace workers were portrayed as eccentric hippie grandmothers.  Generally, the foundational documents such as the U. S. Constitution and standing court interpretations of it, were swamped in a sea of sentimental patriotism, that is to say, fascism of the glee-club American variety.


Here in our neighborhoods and towns, the transnational big box stores are buying all the space around us and when we finally rise out of our chair to shout Peace! or Healthcare Now! -- we are told that we are standing on private property and do not enjoy the rights of the First Amendment anymore.  If we say we are sorry and move to a street or a park, we are met by Permit World, a kafkaeque series of long waits.  We wend our way through this world led by policemen who may work for the city or the country, but may work for Wal-Mart or Disney or Ikea.  We now have subways running through K-Mart basements.  We even have trout streams running through supermalls.  Who's in charge?  Mysterious jurisdictions now drift across the land, following the progress of the products that seem to have cornered freedom of expression.  Products themselves are sacrosanct; any pose or shout from a 5-story-high supermodel is protected, while living citizens are bamboozled if they hope to go public with Peace.


Last month, I was privileged to address the California Labor Federation conference in San Diego.  There were about 600 delegates, gathered from communities where Wal-Mart and Target and Home Depot are carving up public space.  Free of commercial media censorship – you could feel their conversations about actual life cross beyond such rhetorical cyclone fences as Al Gore’s “urban sprawl.”  Mostly, these people are engaged in a desperate rearguard action, trying to get health protection for working families.  14,000 people each week in California lose basic health insurance, and the total of the uncovered is at about 7 million.  This is an extraordinary situation, within the borders of the United States.   McDonalds and Wal- Mart, minimum wage employers, are fueling the disinformation campaign, the advertising flood. 


For the performance, I adopted my character Reverend Billy, preaching in the style that parodies the hard right icon, the televangelist.  Perhaps most of the audience was intrigued, and some straightforwardly delighted with my proposal that we walk back into, across, over – the area the renta-cops are calling “Private Property.”   Preach this:  We should have as much chutzpah as their products.  This is one idea of how progressive people will get back up out of that chair.  We need more activist solutions that aren’t in evidence now, for the conventions and beyond.  Ask, Emma Goldman, Rosa Parks, Walter Reuther, the Memphis garbage collectors and Dr. King; ask Cesar Chavez, Marian Anderson, Abbie Hoffman, Vaclav Havel – ask the people who got up out of their chairs and walked across some line that was described as “Private Club,”  “Communist Party,”  “White Race.” – each of their moves was fabulously creative.  And they had the guts to endure that strange moment when they put their bodies at risk.  


We haven’t baffled the Right in a long time.  They have watched how cowed we are by the bells and whistles of their products.  They have counted on a misplaced civility and outside of a Michael Moore or Noam Chomsky, we have stayed polite.  Or, put more accurately – we have remained Consumers.  But now we must be willing to be strange.  Do the right thing; do the strange thing.  Strange-a-lujah!  Now we absolutely must become radicals, not just because Bush and Kerry are so similar, but also because the most basic exercise of democracy is now defined as “radical.”  If we invite the ordinary awkwardness of getting up out of our chair and sharing information with citizens in a loud voice – we may find that people now congregate in a privatized Main Street.  Open your mouth here and you are “making trouble,” “radical,” and if a politicians sees a few votes or dollars – you are a “terrorist.”  I’ve been in supermall holding tanks.  The walls are painted yellows and pastels – different than the detention facility in New York City, which is called The Tombs, but horrifically the same.


We see the vision, we have the memory, of our heroic teachers of old.  They weathered the strangeness, the counter-intuitive feelings that one must suffer through on the journey to real change.  We admire them, but we must share that strangeness to really honor them…I’m sure that, for instance, Dorothy Day wouldn’t want our memory of her to be full of respect but somehow inactive.  She wants us out of that chair and into the action.  THAT is the gift of these remarkable lives.  As for me -- I put my hand on the Wal-Mart cash register while the cop drops his jaw.  Yes officer, we must Exorcise the Evil from this machine!  Amen!


Reverend Billy aka Bill Talen is a writer and activist.  See






Bush—Worse Than All of Them?


By Berit B.H. Anderson


Recently watching Bill Clinton on television, I, who hated the man for almost everything he did except cigar-fucking Monica Lewinsky, felt shivers of love run through my entire being.  Maybe I’m just thinking in broader strokes these days.  Since September 11th, instead of feeling like a citizen struggling to stay informed, I just struggle to close my jaw so the flies buzzing in don’t interrupt my uttering things like, “Holy Shit, that’s fucked up right?…Shouldn’t he know how to pronounce that word…? Wow, that’s a big boom… Isn’t there a law about not putting leashes on people?”  Instead of political issues, what we have is more like zen koans. Questions like, “How does Iraq govern itself if it’s not allowed to pass laws?” Or, “What is a non-enemy combatant?”


And instead of answers, we have justifiable get out the vote hysteria.  Even Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky, people who spent years advocating voting third party if you must vote at all, are now endorsing Kerry in swing states.  “….though differences are not very large,” said Chomsky, “they do exist.  The current incumbents may do severe, perhaps irreparable, damage if given another hold on power….In a very powerful state, small differences may translate into very substantial effects on the victims.”  It is the point in the horror movie where you find out the calls are coming from inside the house.  Who is this man we’re supposed to rally behind?


He’s supposed to remind us of Clinton, but not as charismatic.  And that is…good?  Clinton began his quest for the presidency by signing the execution papers to put Ricky Ray Rector, a retarded man, to death. By June, Clinton had authorized the bombing of Baghdad because there were whispers of a conspiracy to assassinate George Bush. The three-strikes-you’re-out sentencing guidelines flooded the prisons with minorities.  Recipients of welfare were given a two-year time limit, something that would have made Reagan proud.  He signed the Defense of Marriage Act.  The Clintonites were either to gutless or too heartless or both to dismantle sanctions against Iraq, sanctions resulting in the deaths of perhaps 500,000 Iraqi children, maybe more.  And let’s not forget Nafta and GATT and WTO.  Weren’t we all jumping up and down in the streets with big puppets we were so upset over them?


But what the hell.  After four years of W., I admit to getting a little misty-eyed when Reagan “passed,” no doubt into the third ring of hell.  I joked recently that at least Regan had been smarter than Bush, causing an acquaintance of mine to spasm with accusations that I had forgotten him.  But who could forget him?  We remember catsup as a vegetable.  We remember bombing Libya.  We remember cutting food stamps.  We remember that he answered “I can’t remember” one hundred and thirty times when asked about arms sold to Iran in exchange for hostages.  The one who fired the air traffic control guys?  As in 70,000-Salvadorans-killed-by U.S.-trained-and-funded-death-squads Ronald Reagan?  Yeah, I remember that guy.  He was smarter than Bush.


“Cruel dangerous and savage,” Chomsky has called Bush and cronies, and it’s no doubt true.  More so than Kerry?  Who can say?  The worst of  Bush’s offenses revisited: leading us into war in Afghanistan (with Kerry’s support) and in Iraq (with Kerry’s support) and the Patriot Act (with Kerry’s support) and “the No Child Left Behind” education act (with Kerry’s support).  We are hoping he’ll end the war even as he talks about winning it.

The twin pillars of evil in the Bush Regime are his National Secuity Policy and The Patriot Act. His Security Policy states that U.S. has the right to wage preemptive war against any country which poses a potential risk to us.  It’s evil domestic twin, The Patriot Act, says you no longer need to wait to charge someone with a crime before you hold them in custody.  Has Kerry come out categorically against either of them?  No, but we’re hoping hard, the way you route for a basketball team, thinking that if you leave the couch, it will affect the outcome of the game. 


Our hopes for Kerry are not, however, founded on phantasmagoric nonsense. He does favor scaling back some of the more invasive measures in the Patriot Act and he favors using more diplomacy, and for these concessions to morality and sanity and the Bill of Rights and the Geneva Convention, I for one, am dancing for joy.


The other problem?  Now it seems that new “black box” voting booths will be employed.  These computers are easily hacked and do not as of now, leave a paper trail,.  They are produced by the likes of “Republican-identified company Diebold”, and Hart Inter Civic of Austin, TX (one of the main investors, Tom Hicks, helped turn W. into a millionaire).  An article in the August 16 issue of The Nation Magazine details the potential for fraud in frightening detail.  So even if we are willing to do the “hold your nose and vote” shuffle, we still can’t go home and sleep easy.  Unless we’ve done some effective organizing against these potential vote-erasers or changers, it might not do us any good.


Our protests at the convention are just practice for the protests that must continue after, and in the years to come, if Kerry does defeat Bush.  We need to demonstrate and petition and lobby and letter-write for what we want from the White House and Congress: an immediate withdrawal from Iraq, respect for civil liberties at home and abroad, accountability to international laws.


Berit Anderson is a Brooklyn writer who teaches self-defense.




photo: Nancy Donskoj


Drunk Call to Ted Not Made


By Carl Watson


      There’s been a lot of controversy these days on the audacity of celebrities speaking their minds about politics.  Should celebrities even profess opinions?  Channel 11 did a poll.  AOL also wants to know your opinions on this.  Of course if you are a celebrity and you participate in a poll, you merely confound the issue.  The underlying question seems to be: Who the hell do these people think they are, having an opinion on the war, the presidency or other matters of national identity?  Even Ted Koppel got in on the question fest.  He did a Night line segment on it.  Ted asked Bruce Springsteen why he was getting involved in politics.  Jane Smiley asked Natalie Maines the same thing.  Neither asked Jennifer Lopez why she was not getting involved (which would seem more to the point).  But we all know a pop star has a lot to lose, one misstep and the fans will burn their CDs.


      Still, some people get up in arms over this issue.  One AOL poll responder said politics should be left to the experts.  But who was he to say that?  Did he have some special background?  He may have less to lose than Jennifer or Natalie or Bruce.  Maybe he buys their records but hates their politics.  After all, good people listen to Wagner.  Should citizenship start with shopping?  Or stop?  Tower Records quarterly earnings statements may well tell the political leanings of a certain demographic, but can they justify that same demographic’s right to express an opinion?  A dollar spent is often the best ballot.  Hell, maybe I shouldn’t even be writing this.  After all, I’m not getting paid; the economy is not served.  Besides, what do I know?  And now the Evangelical church has decided to get involved in the Bush campaign.  Should we question their authority?  Or that of the Catholics who would refuse the sacraments to Kerry?


   This brings me by choice to the question of George W’s Christian leanings.  A man of faith, we keep hearing.  The photograph that best accompanies this description is that of our Head of State bowed in fervent prayer—asking God for guidance.  A man of faith, indeed.  But I looked up “faith” in the dictionary and it said “unquestioning belief in something for which there is no proof.”  Most religions involve a certain amount of faith—they need an invisible power to keep the devout in line.  Should Government be faith-based for the same reasons?  Long before the Enlightenment, the Middle Ages were called an Age of Faith.  From then until now Christianity has coupled faith (lack of proof) with conversion theology (aggressive persuasion).  Over the years they have given us crusaders and missionaries, Watchtower magazine hawkers and bug-eyed religious freaks knocking on our door on Saturday morning.  Maybe Bruce Springsteen is simply applying Christian tactics to his political beliefs by crusading against the current regime with rock music.  (The same music American soldiers use to drive insurgents and dictators out of their hiding places.) Bruce is a celebrity and he can do what he wants without God.  Americans, after all, have faith in “celebrity” as an alternative ideal—an ideal which, like institutional religion, often seems to work against the interests of its subscribers.


      Now I am no fan of anybody, and I generally don’t care what celebrities think, wear or marry.  The problem is nobody much cares what I think either, probably because I am quite obviously not famous.  So if Dustin Hoffman or Susan Sarandon can get some liberal air time, I say more power to them.  It’s not a question of authority.  Authority ought to be challenged.  This is America after all and even the most uneducated has a right to their opinion.  That’s good news.  The bad news is: more than half the adult population of America didn’t even read a book last year.  Why bother when authority surrounds us, authentic authoritative people who feel they know better than “the people”, which maybe true since half the people don’t read.  One thing we do know is that everybody feels something.  We feel we are right.  Especially the politicians.


      Speaking of authority, lately I was reading an article about the ancient art of phrenology, that’s the science of feeling the bumps on the skull in order to determine that person’s character.  Now of course we have fancy computer face reading programs that are more scientific.  It’s nothing new. Evolutionists will tell you we’ve been reading faces since the advent of the missionary position.  We have to know who wants to love us and who wants to kill us.  Someone should do a computerized face reading of Bush.  We all familiar with the famous sneer.  The other day a trendy hipster sneered at me in a similar manner.  He was probably afraid I would enter his favorite cafe and lower its social value with my bad haircut.  A guy on the bus sneered at me when I said I was against the war and I thought Bush was a moron.  He said people like me didn’t know what we were talking about.  He called me a “liberal.”  He made it sound like a swear word, and I guess it must be because even the Democrats won’t say “liberal” in public anymore.


      As the terror alerts increase daily in preparation for the coming police state.  One of the latest warnings deals with the possible use of tourist helicopters as flying bombs.  So they interviewed some tourists at a helicopter launching pad.  All of them were foreign and most of them didn’t seem too concerned.  One woman said she thought the alert might be political.  This time it was the news announcer himself who sneered as he made a point of letting us know it was a “French Tourist” who expressed this cynicism.  French of course was the only nationality named amongst the several foreigners interviewed.  What would we do without the evil French?  They make wine that gets us drunk and causes us to beat our kids and crash our cars.  Maybe the United States could sue France for the American obesity epidemic.  All that high fat cheese.  To be fair it is not so much the “evil French” but fear and loathing being exploited here.  Most of the news is geared toward fear. Your child could choke on that Mexican toy!  Your car Japanese car could be a walking time bomb!  Is there a deadly toxin in your kitchen cabinet!  Stay tuned.  Cut to commercial.  Same thing.


      The Bush regime has picked up the lessons of modern advertising: when desire and need fail, let fear function as the key to the American wallet and better ballot box productivity.  And so a population once “comfortably afraid” of bad breath, germ laden toilet seats, dangerous toys, poorly built cars, desolate highways and bad cell service is now barraged with Terror warnings.  Terrorists are the new ‘germs’ infecting your telephone receiver and your kitchen counter.  You can barely go to the medicine chest without thinking about it.  One of Kerry’s campaign promises is the fight for cheaper proscription drugs which may entail importing them from Canada or elsewhere.  Bush counters by claiming that Terrorists are maybe going to spike those cheap drugs with anthrax.  This is getting out of hand.  If Kerry wanted to create more daycare programs for working mothers Bush would probably say the Terrorists were also planning to use day care against us—maybe by poisoning our children’s minds or putting bombs in their lunch boxes. But I’m no authority but it does seem a little, shall we say, reactionary.


      But let’s get back to celebrities.  The media is complicit in the political potency of celebrities.  Most of the year we are asked to believe that these are the most special people in the world.  Not only are they rich and cool but they are smart too. After all why does Ted interview Bruce and not me?  Authority may be little more than access.  Celebrities do have  access.  You and I probably don’t.  Case and point: I called the Nightline offices.  I had a list of issues to discuss and questions to ask.  In fact I wanted to ask Ted about the disappearing issues phenomenon—things that seem real important one day and then they just disappear.  Like the culpability issue, or the credibility issue or the corporate interest issue, or George Bush’s elusive military service.  (We know he got a check, but that’s about all.) And what about these bureaucratic chains of command that always seem to leave the top brass blameless.  It always boils down to a few bad seeds, a rogue CIA agent or a punk soldier.  I wanted to give Ted my opinion on Gay Marriage and Stem Cell Research.  I also wanted to ask why no one is addressing the Middle East problem.  We’re spending billions to destroy the symptoms without engaging the disease—hunting down Terrorists like monster flies, but no one is doing or saying anything about the huge dead animal in the middle of the room, the rotting carcass of American foreign policy that is causing those flies to breed.


      It’s like the family incest secret, only you might be labeled as an abettor of terrorism if you take a controversial stance.  or even if you protest.  In fact you might already be something like a Terrorist without knowing it.  You might support cheaper prescription drugs for instance.  You might not be so sure the government is “doing the right thing.”  I wouldn’t even be surprised if the best Americans start turning themselves in for their own random un-American thoughts.  Like Calvinist sinners seeking purgation.  These are dangerous times after all—one must keep track of one’s own mind.  A bad thought could start a mudslide that could cripple the Dow.  In fact our democratic tendencies, our populist ideals, even our selfish valuation of privacy may be nothing more than the beginning of personal Terrorist leanings.  Therefore, in an act of faith, we ought to surrender them to the judgment and punishment of a higher power.  Maybe a House Un-American Committee.  All these thoughts were going through my head.  And so, during my erstwhile phonecall to Ted Koppel, I felt suddenly penitential, as if my doubt and cynicism even my very need to speak my mind, were somehow bad for the country.  I felt guilty and decided to change my ways.  Instead of complaining over the telephone, I wanted to confess.  Instead of an opinion I wanted to have faith.  And I really wanted to tell Ted all about this inner turmoil and my immanent conversion.  But just as I was about to speak to some sub-sub-secretary or call screener at the end of the long phone tree, I was switched back to the main NBC menu.  “Press 1 if you would like to subscribe to our program.  Press 2 for questions about billing.  . . . . .”


Carl Watson is a writer and philosopher.




photo: Nancy Donskoj


The Plumber

By Tsaurah Litsky


      One night, shortly after the first disclosures about Abu Ghraib, while listening to Kissinger spout euphemisms on the Charlie Rose show, Kissinger’s pendulous face made me so bilious, I had to go to the bathroom and make a deposit without even waiting for the station break.  When I flushed the toilet, it kept flushing, gushing like a fountain. The next morning it was still going strong.   I phoned the landlord. He said I should call an emergency plumber out of the phone book and deduct it from my rent.


Akiva Plumbers in Borough Park sent a wiry, redheaded plumber, wearing a blue velvet yarmulke, who looked like long-ago Kirk Douglas in Spartacus.  This plumber also wore a wide gold wedding band.  The fabric of his lightweight chinos creased and pulled tight around his hips as if he was carrying something big and heavy, maybe a toilet plunger, between his legs.

I watched him fixing the commode. All it needed was a new washer. He looked up and noticed the large white terrycloth robe hanging on the bathroom door.

“Is that your husband’s robe?” the plumber asked.  Actually, it was my robe.  I like to wrap myself in a great big robe that will cover me all over.  Nonetheless, I decided to say yes and create a mythical husband for myself.  I had found that a mythical husband can sometimes be quite convenient i.e. you better leave right now, my husband will be home in and hour.

“So where’s your husband?” the plumber asked when he was done.

“He’s away,” I told him.  I offered the plumber a drink.  My mother had taught me to always be courteous to workmen and offer them refreshment.

“Why not?” he said.


Half an hour later, the plumber, I never asked his name, was naked except for his yarmulke, which was firmly attached to his hair by four black bobby pins.  As I was peeling off my clothes, he asked me if I had a condom.  I have a cigar box full.  I took out three, demonstrating that I am a hopeless optimist, and put them on the shelf above my bed.

Then I put my nude body down on my not-so-clean sheets next to the plumber. He seemed uncertain as to what to do next and lay there stiffly like a marionette waiting for someone to pull his strings.  I took his hand and dipped his fingers into the little hot springs already bubbling between my legs.  He jerked his hand away as if he feared my twat had teeth and would bite him, or perhaps he just didn’t know anything about foreplay.  I demonstrated by putting my own fingers inside me, moving them in and out to show him how it was done.  I spread my legs wide so he could get a good look at my fingers, shiny with love juice, and my rosy pussy lips tucked deep inside my lush, black bush.  He bent his movie star head closer to get a better look.  His eyes widened as if he was enchanted, but all he did was look.

As he watched, his fat, pale cock rose up and grew into a hammer, a fine robust mallet with a big, heavy head. Still, he did not strike me with it, he just continued staring at my snatch.


Finally, I lost patience. I grabbed one of the condom packets, ripped it open, and slid the condom out of the packet.  Then I grabbed his stupid tool and encased it.  Rather roughly, I used it to pull him towards me, then I swung my leg over his hip, and fed him into my hungry cunt. 

He fell on top of me, and, at last, began to move, up and down, down and up, with a good steady motion like a roto-rooter.  Then he bent his head and took my tit between his teeth, sucking it as gently as if it was his mother’s.  Just once, right in the middle of the act, did he take his mouth of that nipple, and then only briefly, to say with some amazement, “She likes it, she likes it.”  Who knows what he was used to?

He didn’t want to take any money from me for fixing the toilet.  When I told him the landlord wanted me to put it towards my rent, the plumber accepted a check.  He said he had a good time, kissed me on the cheek and left.


I went into the bedroom to neaten the bed.  When I put my hand under the pillow, I found a twenty folded up into a neat little square.  At first I was shocked, then I thought it was funny how I had involuntarily become an Irma La Douce at this late stage.  But twenty dollars?  What year did he think he was living in?   In 1968 maybe he was just a cheapskate?  

I decided  to spend the money on copy paper and a bottle of Smirnoff.   I did not tell my friends about my adventure with Akiva plumber and the incident was quickly fading from my mind.   Within a few days, all I could remember about his cock was how pasty and white it was, like the belly of a fish.


The summer solstice arrived bringing with it sudden, intense heat.  The as yet unopened package of copy paper next to my printer inspired me.  I turned off the TV, lowered the shades, put on the fan, and started to write again.  I went back to my memoir of my life in the seventies.  One early morning I was working on the chapter about Nixon’s first days in politics, writing about how he financed  his first senatorial campaign with his poker winnings and how he won that election despite widespread rumors that Pat was a man.  I decided to take a break and bring the trash outside.  Last night’s left over tuna fish was stinking up the room. 

When I swung open the downstairs door, the heat was already rising up from the sidewalk; it was going to be another sizzling day.  Then I saw him.  There, sitting right in front of my door in his truck with the windows open was Akiva plumber.

He jumped right out, “I was going to ring your bell at nine o’clock,” he said, grinning like a maniac, “I thought maybe you need more plumbing done?”


In the bright morning light, I first noticed he had a funny little potbelly shaped like a watermelon.  Through the fabric of his shirt, I could see his nipples were hard and poked out in stiff points like tiny daggers.

 I was terrified, “No, no, no,” I heard myself yelling.  “Go away, don’t come here again!”   He took a step closer to me, as if I hadn’t even yelled at him.

“You like it, you know you like it, “ he sneered.  “You like it when I do your plumbing.”

“Get away,” I screamed again,  “I’ll call the cops.”  He took another step closer and then another, his arms outstretched as if he was going to grab me.

Reflexively, I threw my garbage at him.  The brown paper bag burst open on impact, decorating his chest with the coffee grinds,  egg shells and the soggy remains of the tuna fish salad.  This stopped him for a moment, just long enough for me to dash back inside.   I double-locked the downstairs door and ran back up to my apartment.


I was shaking, the brilliant summer day suddenly grown dark and ominous. Calculated fucking always leads to idiocy, D.H. Lawrence said, and he was right.   I wondered if I should call the police, but what could I say?  If I told them a one-night stand had dropped by again to see if he could get another lay, they would laugh me all the way to Canarsie.

I waited a half hour, then went to the window and peered out. His green  van was gone, but still, what would I do if the plumber came back?   Suddenly, I got a brilliant idea -- if Akiva showed up once more, I’d call the police and say I’m reporting a suspected terrorist.  I ’ll say he’s parked outside my door in a green  van.  I’d tell them he keeps getting out of the van with a pair of binoculars and gazes up at the bridge.  I’ll describe his funny hat. I’ll say is wearing a bulging backpack on his back.  That should bring the police straight away.


The next day, there was no Akiva Plumber, but the morning after that, there he was again, parked right in front of my door in his van.  His chubby arm protruded out the open window.  I felt sick thinking I had encouraged this arm to embrace me.  I wanted him to drive away and never come back.  Then I remembered my plan of action.  Resolutely, I went to the phone and called 911.

When a woman with a tired voice answered, I tried to make my own voice as high and excited as possible.  I launched into my story about the suspicious man with the green truck, but she soon interrupted me.  “Name please?

“What do you need my name for?” I protested, “there’s a terrorist outside, send the cops, hurry up…”

“Name please,” she said again, more sharply.  “It’s regulations.”  Then she asked for my phone number, and my address.  “Apartment number?  Date of birth,” she demanded.  This was too much.  “What difference does my age make, what are you going to do with this information?”  I asked her, my voice also growing sharp.

“I’m cross-referencing your information right now,” she said,  “checking to see if your address matches with your tax records.  “We want to know who all our good citizens are,” she continued ominously.  This was the scariest thing she had said so far.  I felt like hanging up but from where I was standing I could see Akiva out the window.  He had gotten out of his truck and was peering up at my window, shielding his eyes from the sun with a big meaty hand.   I wanted to ask the woman if she could stop for a few minutes so I could masturbate, I needed to calm myself down, but instead I got angry. “Look this is wasting time,” I yelled,  “There is a terrorist outside with a great big bomb, he’s carrying a big cardboard box with red letters on it that say, Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb!”  I screamed into the phone. 

“He has a bomb?” she asked.  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?  Stay calm,” she cautioned me, “and keep away from the windows, hide under your bed or in a closet.  The anti-terrorist squad will be right there!”


I certainly wasn’t going to hide in a closet.  I wanted a ringside seat.  I went over to the window.  In a few minutes, four black SUVs screeched around the corner and surrounded Akiva’s truck.  Two men jumped out of each vehicle.  They were all wearing suits and carrying AK-47’s.  In an instant, the hapless plumber was surrounded. He started to gesticulate wildly pointing up to my apartment, yelling loudly in Yiddish.   However, the great Jehovah did not reach down his infinite arm and snatch the plumber up to safety in the clouds.  In less time than you can say the meek will not inherit the earth, the plumber was bound with shiny yellow rope, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and thrown into one of the SUV’s.   Right before the vehicles drove away, a tow truck appeared for Akiva’s green van.

My stalker was gone, and it only took one phone call,  and,  I thought ruefully, having my name permanently entered in Big Brother’s roll book.

I deserved a celebratory cocktail even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning.   I made it a stiff one,  and I promised myself to never again seduce anyone I just met again,  although I knew this was a promise I would not keep.


Happily tipsy, I went to my computer to resume work on my memoir.  I was describing how my six-foot tall friend Andy Hardy had got a 4F when he was drafted for the Vietnam War.  He showed up at the draft board, in the blue plaid skirt and white blouse of a Catholic schoolgirl.  Before I could mention the pink satin toe shoes he wore, there was a loud knocking on my door.

I went to the peephole in the door and looked out, two men in suits were standing in the hall.  The short, round one looked like Danny deVito and the big, handsome one looked like Zorro without the mustache.  “How can I help you?”  I called out through the door.

“Anti-terrorist task force,” said the little one in a squeaky voice, “May we speak with you, M’am?”  I knew enough to ask for their I.D’s.  They pulled them out and held them up to the peephole.

“O.k.,” I said.  I swung open the door.  “Come in.”

     The short guy introduced himself as FBI agent Doughboy while the tall one said he was Detective Rambo of the New York Police Department.

   “You reported the alleged terrorist,” said agent Doughboy, “We need to ask you a few questions.”
    “Er, all right, “ I said, “sit down,” gesturing to the chairs around the kitchen table. I became conscious of my vodka-laden breath and that all I was wearing was the ratty old yellow slip I like to sleep in. Officer Rambo was eyeing my bosom. I looked down to see my right nipple has escaped the top of my slip, pretty and pink as the bud of a flower. I hitched up the strap of my slip, as he politely looked away.

    “Please, sit down,” I repeated.


     Doughboy and I took the kitchen chairs while Rambo sank into the butterfly chair, his long legs jackknifed up in front of him. He pulled out a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. Doughboy began the questioning, “Now, m’am,” he said, “When did you first see the alleged terrorist?” Rambo kept silent, writing in his notepad as I answered. I wondered if I was imagining that he kept sneaking glances at my mouth as I spoke.  His eyes were dark and soulful like a fawn’s.

    After he finished the interview, Agent Doughboy stood up and thanked me.

“It’s citizens like you who keep our world safe for democracy. You are an American patriot like our first lady Nancy Reagan.”  “What?” I piped up, “Our first Lady is Laura Bush.” Agent Doughboy got red in the face, “I guess you’re right,” he admitted, “I sometimes get confused.” Detective Rambo rose quickly. “Thank you for your time, “ he said, and he ushered his partner out.


    I locked the door behind them. They did not seem to have the slightest suspicion of my little ruse. Another cocktail was in order. It wasn’t until I had mixed it and sat down again at the table to savor it that I noticed Detective Rambo had forgotten his notebook. It was on the table right in front of me.  I thought of calling the police central and asking for the anti-terrorism squad but before I had a chance, I heard footsteps out in the hall. .

      Officer Rambo was smiling at me shyly when I opened the door. “You left your notebook,” I said. I got it and handed it to him. “Thanks,” he said, and then. “I hope you’re not offended but I have to ask you another question.” I told him to go ahead. “W-w- w-w you l-ll –l- like to go out sometime?” he sputtered. I couldn’t deny I found him attractive. But go out with a cop? In the sixties, they were the enemy, we considered them  part of the establishment. We called them pigs. I remembered how the police loved Guiliani. “I don’t know,” I told Officer Rambo, “I bet you’re a Republican.”

     He looked hurt,  “Are you kidding,” he spat out, “At the station our name for the president is monkey nuts. We hate him, and his fat cats.  After 9/ll when our guys put their lives on the line, Washington never came through with the money we needed. Throw that chimpanzee out!” 

     I couldn’t believe my luck. ‘Would you go to demonstrations with me during the Republican convention. “Sure,” he said, “If I’m not on duty. I’ll be your body guard.”

      On our first date we got a pizza from Grimaldi’s down the street, and went to eat it in the park under the Brooklyn Bridge. When I asked him why he became a cop, he didn’t give me one of those Pollyanna I wanted to help people
answers, instead he said he became a cop because he believed there was a difference between right and wrong. When I asked him what he considered wrong he said, hurting other people, lying and stealing. I couldn’t argue with that, if only our so-called President felt the same way. Detective Rambo didn’t ask me why I never had kids or if I had ever been married, instead he wanted to know about my writing, how I got started. I soon found myself wanting to know if he swung right or left, if he had hair on his balls, if he liked doggy style better then sixty-nine?  At the end of our date, he walked me back to my door and kissed me deeply, sweetly. His tongue tasted like marinara sauce.


    I invited him up to my place after our fourth evening out. When the fortune in my fortune cookie at Gooey Noodle Restaurant said, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, I knew it was time.

    We didn’t say anything as we climbed the stairs. I was nervous. I hoped he wouldn’t get turned off when he saw my ass was heading south in the direction of Miami, and I hoped his cock wouldn’t stutter and get nervous in bed.  

   “Want a drink?” I asked him when we were in my kitchen. “Nope,” he said.

“How about some water, some coffee, a vitamin pill? They are organic,” I pleaded. He just smiled at me, “Let’s do it,” he said. He took my hand and we marched into my bedroom to our salvation or our doom.

    He gently led me to my bed and sat me down. He was trembling slightly, he was nervous too. Abruptly, he dropped to his knees and knelt at my feet.

    “You are my goddess,” said Officer Rambo, a new, plaintive note in his voice, “ I want to be your slave. I want to be naked before you.” I was amazed at this stunning turn of events.  I usually attracted bruisers who wanted to tell me what to do. I had always yearned to command a man, to tell him to caress my back hole with his lips and suck my love button until kingdom come. Here at last was my chance. “O.k.,” I told Officer Rambo, “Will you rim me and eat me on command? “Yes, yes, it will be my pleasure goddess!” he cried. “Thanks you, thank you. May I disrobe?” he asked. “You may, “ I said in haughty tone, surprised at how easily I slipped into the mistress role.


    He stood up with a happy sigh and started to take off his clothes. He folded each garment neatly and put it on my computer chair. He took off his shoes and socks. He stood naked before me except for a snub-nose pistol that he wore in a holster strapped around his left ankle. His low-slung balls were bigger than grapefruits, and his long golden prick, uncut and thick as a beer can, was already pointing right at me. I felt myself getting wet.

  “Take off that gun and holster and put it next to your shoes,” I ordered, then I asked him if the gun was loaded. “Yes,” he replied.  So now I have two loaded guns in my bedroom?”  I asked   “Affirmative, Goddess,” he answered. “Good, ” I replied, “And slave, you are permitted to smile.”

  He gave me a huge grin and his prick seemed to grow even bigger, it was as long as an AK-47. “I await your command, Mistress,” Officer Rambo told me.

  I lifted my skirt up above my hips to expose my crotch; I never wear panties in the summer time. I spread my legs wide. 

    “Now, show me what you know about eating pussy,” I said.

     In an instant, he was on his knees again, kissing me hotly, roughly, where my thighs join my body, then he was fucking me with his tongue, but slowly now, driving me so wild I couldn’t stop moving, bucking, thrusting my cunt up to meet his mouth. Just as I was beginning to feel the intense heat that meant I was going to come, he stopped. He traced his tongue up to my pulsing clit and started to suck. He did know how to take his time. He kept on sucking there until I was moaning, joyous, desperate to let go. As I hovered on the point of no return, he took a thick finger and rammed it right up into my butt hole, pushing me over the edge, proving without a doubt he deserved to be called New York’s Finest.




Tsaurah Litzky is a writer of erotic fiction and poetry. Her erotic novella, The Motion of the Ocean, published by Simon & Schuster, can be found in bookstores now as part of Three The Hard Way, a book of three erotic novellas edited by Susie Bright. Tsaurah’s book of poetry, Baby on the Water (Long Shot Press - 2003) includes many poems inspired by her adventures in Williamsburg. She teaches erotic writing and erotic literature at The New School.








2 by Jill Rapaport



"On the Ground" "at the End of the Day"


I won't dignify the current mob with a designation nor bring odium upon myself by pronouncing it.


I am one of the billions of apparently meaningless individuals who

individually and collectively live in apoplectic outrage at the fact of being herded by an oligarchical crew of businessmen into an enclosure in which we are watched and held as part of that all-creation that they have bought and now control.


There are times when I come across an idea that holds the promise of an enlightened thought, as when I see an obituary for Francis Crick, a discoverer of DNA much admired by, among others, my father.


First I think: Here's somebody who was admirable in the world. Then I think, there he is, dead, and there’s nothing to say for it except an article in the paper, that gets thrown away, like him, with the day’s crumbs.


And sometimes the great and powerful (the enormous and, until three years ago, permanent tombstones that had been resting on our heads, crushing us and eclipsing the sun), fall, as on September 11.  Then, it is as much for the loss of those dull buildings that marked certain years of a city which I've both loved and hated as it is for the dead that I cry like a beast trapped in fury and grief.


And at fugue moments, interspersed with my grief, fury, and horror, other emotions surface, like: "Yay!"


I, too, at moments, had had daydreams concerning their destruction. But unlike the gang of killers that comprises Saudis, an Egyptian, bin Laden, George Bush, I did not have the access to bring them down. I only sat by the sidelines and watched.



Knot Pipe Tobacco


In 1999, an Indian airliner was forced to land in an airport in Kandahar,  Afghanistan, by hijackers who, before winning the release from imprisonment in India of three fellow militant jihadists, beheaded one of the passenger-hostages. One of the individuals freed, on Dec. 31, 1999, was a British-born man of Pakistani origin named Omar Saeed Sheikh. On September 11, 2001, in an event that had been five years or more in the planning, nineteen Middle Eastern men hijacked four American commercial jets, crashing two into the twin towers of the World Trade Center, one into a field in Pennsylvania, and one into the Pentagon, in the worst act of terrorism in U.S. history. The ringleader, according to reports, was Mohammed Atta, whose passport was reported to have been found near the base of the ruined towers shortly afterward (!).  In early 2002, a Wall Street Journal reporter, Daniel Pearl, who was researching the contacts and connections of Richard Reid, the would-be “shoe bomber,” was kidnapped and held for several days in Karachi, Pakistan.  The kidnappers communicated the fact of their holding Pearl to the world via photos and correspondence, and ultimately decapitated him, making a video of the murder that was immediately and widely circulated. Eventually, several suspects were apprehended, among them Omar Sheikh. He is still in custody and has been condemned to death by hanging by a court in Hyderabad. On August 10, 2004, George W. Bush, whose illegitimate presidency was transformed by 9/11, named Porter Goss, R-Fla., former chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, as the new director of the American CIA, to succeed George Tenet.  Sometime in the days preceding September 11, 2001, $100,000 was wired by General Mahmood Ahmad, head of the Pakistani secret services agency known as the ISI, an organization notoriously infested with pro-Taliban and pro-al Qaida elements, to 9/11 ringleader Mohammed Atta in the U.S., via a middleman: Omar Sheikh. On the morning of September 11, 2001, as the attacks were unfolding, General Mahmood Ahmad of the ISI of Pakistan, our critical South Asian ally in what George W. Bush refers to as the “war on terrah‚”  was meeting over breakfast with members of the House Intelligence committee in Washington.  Principals at the breakfast included Porter Goss and Bob Graham--later a Democratic candidate for the 2004 presidential race who dropped out relatively early in the campaign, and who, like Goss, is from Florida, the state where some of the 9/11 hijackers stayed and the governor of which is Jeb Bush, brother of George W. The content of that breakfast discussion has not been made public.  Ahmad was later forced to step down as ISI chief, because of his ties to jihadists in Pakistan and, presumably, elsewhere.


On the day the Bin Laden operative Shaikh Khalid Mohammed was caught, I remember that in a New York tabloid I found this headline: “Mohammed arrest like liberation of Paris.”   I read further down that “...the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee called the arrest “huge.”   “This is the equivalent of the liberation of Paris in the Second World War,”  said Rep. Porter Goss, R-Florida.  “This is taking out [Nazi propagandist Joseph] Goebbels as an operative of the German Wehrmacht. This is just extremely important and it’s going to lead to other very successful activities very shortly, I’m.”   The overkill of it struck me and I made a point of keeping an eye out since then for the name.


Mahmood Ahmad was never referred to during the lengthy and much publicized

9/11 hearings held this year.  And several members of the 9/11 Commission have past ties to highly placed members of the current Bush administration.


Jill Rapaport writes fiction, essays, plays, and poems, and draws cartoons.




“Imagine the New Nation”: interactive projection in DUMBO, July 2004

Growing Army of Have-Nots Redefine What's Needed


By Ben Williams


Much can be said about the 'dot com' bubble in the 90s, with its instant wealth promises, lavish parties and recreation on demand culture.  Recent grads poured into these workplaces full of idealism about 'the new economy' and the freedoms they expected it to provide, only to find themselves couch surfing a few short years later, as b2b became back to mom--dreams of working in a new type of workplace that provided wealth and comfort for all dashed.


Perhaps the bleakest news is also the brightest.  The fallout from the bust has left many educated young people angry and with very little left to loose.


Political movements can often be held in check a by fear of losing a position, a house, one's credit or freedom.  So, what happens when you have angry people who don't have these traditional trappings to hold them in check?  Combine that with the seemingly endless list of ways the wealthy ruling class are manipulating the world to benefit themselves alone, bleak real job growth, and an unpopular war--and you have a new subculture of disaffected youth who may be willing to fight for change.


What happened to this generation?  Some struggled to find work, reverted to button-down shirts and headed demoralized into more conservative offices, many more fled the office world altogether looking to channel their initial idealism into new venues.   Applications to such programs such as the New York 'teaching fellowship' surged, with demand outstripping positions.  Many young dot-commers watched as their credit card debt built up and their severance or unemployment ran out as they searched for a way to keep their dreams alive.  Many sold belongings and applied for jobs that they thought would be a sure thing, only to find themselves lying to get a job serving coffee.  Others huddled over their computers at home finding ways to crank out small amounts of profitable code while distilling the day’s bad news.


The '60s anti-war movement shows us that young people gathered in their schools, rose up and sent a strong message to the government, while putting their educations on the line.  Perhaps the internet will provide an equally fertile ground for a meeting of minds and gathering of resources to fight for the things we believe in.


Howard Dean seems to have harnessed a lot of the power of this subculture in his bid for nomination, only to have it piddle out to 'anyone who can win against Bush,’ leaving many of his admirers without a candidate they can truly stand behind, or share hope with.


It would seem easy to unite around such goals as a living wage, less racism, saving the environment, and better education.  Perhaps easier if these were not the same things every candidate always spits out in rote to us every time they run for office.


Perhaps it's time to look at what we really all share as needs in the world -- shelter, food, water, love, and clothing.  If everyone started from a place that they had everything on this list wouldn't the world be a much safer and saner place?  Who can argue that these needs are not universal and rational?  Each of these main needs has many subneeds delegated to them--for example: love provides community and respect. Water demands a cleaner, safer environment.  Food means examining the horror of agribusiness and ways of making good food accessible to the masses, and somehow affordable.  Shelter, well, that's pretty simple.


Can we not find it within ourselves to find ways to provide those things better for our immediate community as a starting point?


Or we can just all huddle with our respective lists of gripes and let our chance at righting our collective list of wrongs slip away.


Ben Williams is a Brooklyn writer and graphic artist.










Lex Grey




Last Patriot


See him sittin in the kitchen

Wife is bitchin, nose is itchin

Ain’t no more music in his head

He’s been thinking about drinkin

In the morning—got the warning

So he goes to work instead.


So connected, yet  out of touch

And survival means so much...

Yea, he served his country well.

He ain’t thinking that it’s funny

Got no future, got no money.

He can go to hell


One step forward leads him two steps back

Every day it’s like he’s under attack

Does anybody really watch his back?


Exploited like a slut

Stomped out like a cigarette butt

I feel it in my gut

He’s the last patriot.


In the bars, in the basements

Sit the government’s replacements

But they don’t know it yet

And the simplest solution is to remember


But it’s so easy to forget.


One step forward leads us two steps back

Every day its like we’re under attack

Does anybody really watch our back?


Exploited like a slut

Stomped out like a cigarette butt

I feel it in my gut

We’re the last patriots.


Now I’m sittin in the kitchen

Wife is bitchin, nose is itchin

There ain’t no music in my head.

I’ve been thinking about drinkin

In the morning, day is dawning

I just crawl back into bed.


One step forward leads me two steps back

Every day is like I’m under attack

Does anybody really watch my back?


Exploited like a slut

Stomped out like a cigarette butt

I feel it in my gut

I’m the Last Patriot.


©2002 Lex Grey, Man’s Ruin Music

from the CD “American Heroine” ascap


Lex Grey is a chanteuse, local celebrity, artist, and writer.








Kinko the Clown’s 10 Points to a Successful Protest

guidelines, not rules


1. Maintain a sense of humor. If you cannot laugh and see just how frighteningly funny everything has become, you are in big trouble.


2. Remain flexible: physically, mentally and emotionally. Times are changing at a rapid rate. Remember a limp and flexible body is more likely to survive car wrecks, Niagara Falls, and police brutality. A proper stretching regiment is suggested, this may include yoga, drinking, and/or drugs. There are many paths, one may work for you.


3. Sometimes fashion is more important than comfort. Stilts, clown shoes, bullet proof vests, gas masks, high heel shoes, and helmets may be uncomfortable during hot steamy protests. But you are in NYC and the whole world is watching. Imagine having your three seconds of fame on the international news be in a drab outfit. Worse yet, bad fashion will leave you on the cutting room floor. Even a great accessory will make all the difference: black bandanas, American flag scarves, or handcuffs.


4. Use as much force as is necessary to prove one’s point, no more, no less. This does not apply if you are using cream pies, water balloons, or whoopie cushions.


5. The first duty is not to get caught. Jail sucks! Most protest arrests lead to very short stints in the slammer. The first few hours may provide great comraderie, just like being in Clown Alley, but once you wake up the next morning, the pain of confinement will set in. If you do get put away for a while, this may not be all bad, you will be able to catch up on reading, learning to juggle, or learning how to take a slap.


6. Never explain what you are doing. If you have problems understanding this point, simply put on a clown nose and feel the magic.


7. Run, don’t walk. Running makes everything more exciting.


8. Never forget that the battle is against a machine not against people. This may get a bit confusing when it is a person aiming the automatic rifle at your head, but if you can remember this point, it may help define your tactics.


9. Never refuse what is by nature funny. You may not believe in human nature, but bow down to funny nature. Ducks are always funny. So is dropping your pants, cream pies, sousaphones. If I can’t clown at your revolution...


10. Enjoy the Spectacle! Whether you are seeing a Cirkus, running with the Black Bloc on Wall Street, or dancing in the streets naked, enjoy what you are doing.


Clowns of the World Unite!


Kinko the Clown wants to hear from you









The Axis of Eve

Mission: Expose and Depose


"Do right and you will be conspicuous"

--Mark Twain, 1901


"Let's expose the bastard, one panty at a time!"

--axis of eve supporter


The Axis of Eve is a coalition of brazen women on a mission to EXPOSE and DEPOSE President Select George W. Bush and his deceitful administration.  Convinced that effective political action can be irreverent and exciting, we have launched a titillating campaign of TRUTH-FLASHING coordinated around our provocative line of protest panties.


This campaign will culminate at the Republican National Convention in NYC in September, where over 100 Eves and Adams will perform a MASS FLASH (of our protest panties) to create a media spectacle that lays bare the shameful tactics of the Bush administration and boldly demands an end to political cover-up.


Current Slogans

give bush the finger

weapon of mass seduction

expose bush

drill bush not oil

cream bush

lick bush

bush out

down on bush

axis of eve

fire bush

ballot box

make dick limp












The Official

Republican National


Tourist Guide


Visitors to New York usually come with wide eyes and great expectations.  And the Big Apple rarely disappoints—few places in this great nation are as entertaining as New York.  No matter what you’re after, you’ll find it: great theater, magnificent museums, luxurious hotels, glamorous nightlife, sumptuous dining.  And for the adventurous, for those who want to get a taste of the “real” New York behind the flash and glitter, there is no lack of opportunity.  Here’s a listing of must-see places well off the beaten tourist trail:

1. East New York

The quaint, out of the way character of this ethnic neighborhood has been attracting in-the-know visitors for decades.  This is a place that time seems to have forgotten.  Remember your cameras to capture the colorful lifestyle of the residents.  Laptops are encouraged by the many new Internet cafes, which seem sprouting on every corner as young “hipsters” discover the area’s charm. (Take the A-train to Broadway Junction in Brooklyn and walk south).

2. Fresh Kills, Staten Island

Take a trip on the Staten Island ferry to this fine picnic spot a stone’s throw from the Jersey Shore.  This nature-preserve and botanical garden also offers fine birding opportunities.  Remember your binoculars. (Ferry to Staten Island Terminal and S65 bus).

3. Brooklyn House of Detention

Don’t let the scary name keep you from this happenin’ nightspot in one of Brooklyn’s trendier, up-and-coming neighborhoods.  “Make the scene” in an orange jumpsuit and win free drink specials. (F-train to York Avenue and walk south to Flushing and Vanderbilt Avenues).

4. Hell’s Gate

One of New York’s best-kept secrets, this public beach on the scenic Queens shoreline offers fine swimming, windsurfing, snorkeling, and scuba-diving.  Suit-up and “get down” at the East River’s “funky” down-home beachfront playground. (N or W-train to Ditmars Blvd., Astoria and walk west).

5. Badlands

Another of Manhattan’s best-kept secrets, this eatery/entertainment center with a “Wild West” flavor caters to a family clientele with generous buffet and cocktail offerings.  Children and adults alike love the unique game-room where you can let loose and ride the rodeo bull.  “Western” attire is encouraged. (A-train to West 4th Street or #2 to Christopher St./Sheridan Square and walk west to West Street).

6. Riker’s Island

Make it a family day of picnicking, play, and exploration at this historic and scenic “village” in the middle of the East River. Another New York neighborhood that time has forgotten. (M15 bus).

7. Baby Doll Lounge

Bring the wife and daughter to this charming doll museum and gift shop in trendy Tribeca.  The girls will thrill to the exotic doll clothing and accessories. (A-train to Canal and walk south to Church and Walker Streets).


And whether you’re braving the surf in the East River or surfing the Internet in East New York, be sure to share the “good news” of the Republican message.  Today’s New Yorkers are as proud of America as you are, and will often give you special treatment when they hear “where you’re coming from.”  Ask a cab driver how he feels about the War on Terror.  Ask a waitress how she feels about our stand on education.  Ask a street vendor how he feels about our program for the economy.  The Bush roots reach deep into the hearts of every New Yorker, and as they’ll tell you, New York and all of America is safer today and more prosperous than ever under the leadership of George W. Bush.


Let’s hear a rousing “Bronx cheer” for the U.S. of America and the Grand Old Party!!  Happy travels!!  Make your stay in NYC one you’ll talk about for the rest of your life!! 









copyright © Williamsburg Observer Publishing 2005 Human Rights Reserved