bleeding heart liberal
These are terms of vile against me and others for fighting for the simple rights of people some of the most able, of the land and poor village people and farmers whose lives are torn up, destroyed, disposed of, displaced through the strong arm and long arm of economic-cultural-political-military warfare.
You can be labeled “anti-American/anti-business/anti-poor” for questioning Walmart. You can be called a “traitor” for questioning bombing, chemical spraying, immolating, polluting, imprisoning, permanently displacing people the USA deems enemies, supportive of enemies of the state, or collateral damage.
Proportionality when discussed by the average American is questioning the very fabric of our way of life, our leadership and our own form of enslavement and dictatorship. The military is right, and whatever they need to intervene or overreach, they know the deal.
The first local punk show was the Dils from Oceanside at the Adams Theater. “The majority of the people didn’t know exactly what it was all about. They were wearing ripped clothes with safety pins in them and thinking it was punk.
By Jeff Spurrier, Aug. 3, 1978 | Read full article
The Zeros, in typically unpretentious fashion, have assumed the empty throne as San Diego s best New Wave band, and they show little sign of wanting to leave. “Javier does a lot to encourage the bands in L.A. to come down here and play. That helps a lot,” according to Griswold. He tells them about bands down here and why he likes them. It s not like he’s ashamed to be from San Diego.”
Remembering Martin Luther King’s Last, Most Radical Book
Marking an anniversary of a book’s publication is, appropriately, reserved for books that were widely read when they first appeared many years ago. Books we commemorate with an anniversary are ones that ushered in a new way of thinking and influenced the way society tries to make sense of the world. Martin Luther King Jr.’s last book,
Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community did neither of these things.
1
Published in the long, hot summer of 1967, it was politely reviewed but dismissed. Milton R. Konvitz of the
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Dade
City,
Fla. The last time I kissed a man was almost a year ago, just before the virus closed the country. The gentleman caller standing outside my trailer had been giving me
that look over the previous few days in the pool that serves as a gathering spot at our winter gay campground. On the day before I was to leave for the trip back north, this handsome chap mustered the courage to knock at my door. Since I would be gone before the gossip at the pool would undoubtedly identify me as a slut, I gave in to his advances.