"Mr. Hughes met me at the door, shook hands, and indicated a chair. He fit the pictures I had seen in some articles. He was dressed in a conservative business suit and was a picture of courtesy, intelligence, and competence. He immediately set me at ease and we started talking."
- L.A. Hyland, Hughes Aircraft
Why have I seen the former CEO of Hughes Aircraft, to borrow a spy's term, "skulking" around me? Want bigger names dropped? Not tonight, girls. How about we all get sworn-in? I'm not picky about the venue.
Art Bell of the Coast to Coast AM program spoke of them in the 1990's. And, I sure did wonder both why George Noory would not accept my invitation to tour the loony bin where I toiled (but he e-mailed back), and why the show originated from Los Angeles & St. Louis. How many times do you say "LA" and "StL" in the same sentence? Not often, nutcases. And now, thanks to magic from the USA's most popular digital camera, here they are painting their ever-popular "flyin' triangle" in front of a humble senior center where I accomplish the following: 1) Drink coffee; and 2) Write (when you people are not annoying the crap out of me). That's all I'm doing (honest), so you can s**tcan the Bond movie theme by Sir Paul, and "Get Real," a political slogan of mine that has already been stolen by a big corporation (or two, I discovered by touring Soldier Boy's Internet).
How long will a stunningly sane William Charles Hughes be trapped among the cuckoos? It's all Vandenberg, and it's all Roswell. You know it, and I know it, 1947 types, and quite frankly, my dear, I'm sick of it. No briefings by spiffy uniformed USAF guys like in the old 1960's show The Invaders, a Quinn Martin Production, because you all went over the edge a long time ago. Drugs, sex, money, power...it truly is your skipping CD, and that garbage will drive me into the Catholic priesthood fast as, "Father Hughes, bush pilot." Not a thing you can do about that, dumbasses. Not a thing.
Oh, and by the way, don't f*** with the Vatican, girls.
The nation of France trend-sets with many uber-duber way cool things, so it is reassuring that as a new generation Hughes hollers select POTUS people are jail-worthy, Jacques Chirac may be headed there.
Row, row, row the boat, gently down the stream...etc. etc. etc.
Not to divert from Hollywood, Ron Howard, but why did the Apollo 12 astronaut moon-walkers go straight to my Surveyor II spacecraft that was already there? And, why is NASA's account of this trek a pack of lies? NASA's version holds they were beyond line-of-sight from the LEM, with no moon buggy yet deployed; a dangerous walk for sure. Next, please explain to me the photo inside the front and back cover of a book about my former Hughes Aircraft President, L.A. Hyland, which should be on the wall of my castle, showing the Apollo 12 LEM and my Surveyor right next to each other.
Can't hear you!!! Speak up, please, spookies! Back to the prepared text, I wondered if it was an E.T. "drop" of some sort, kind of like Robert Hansen, who was one of precious few caught by our valiant FBI after flaunting his spying. The unfamous words upon arrest: "What took you so long?" Hey there, "legitimate" gov'ment, what is taking so long for me to get in a Swiss bank account or two? Don't know, don't care, because as long as I live and breathe, and even in the hereafter, CROOKS, YOU CAN'T GET TO ANY MORE HUGHES MONEY.
If you are, it's National Security Act of 1947 lawbreaking, per usual. What was that they said at Castro's Back Room cigar shop in Concord, New Hampshire? "Anything can happen," and probably will, especially when my restored Gulfstream was sitting at the airport, but the presence of my olive green aircraft, as we said in the 1970's, "weirded me out" so bad, I failed to take a photo of it.
I need a mere 10-20 million dollars to direct a modest little movie that will make lots of money for all concerned. Even if I stink the place up in a first effort, you will, whoever you are, break even on the novelty factor, and you know it. It's kind of like running for president, a process I will win, and you all also know this. So, I sleep under trees and laugh when the policeman's PA says "Get off the freeway" but the idiot driver is presumably deaf. I'm not deaf, and neither are you jackasses, so anyone who talks to me from this day on will hear about the Surveyor spacecraft, which is conveniently mine, and my plans to build a little pagoda around it for the day when an American family of four takes the "vacation of a lifetime" National Lampoon Vacation movie-style or not, on the freakin' moon. It won't be cheap, but neither is Florida in the winter.
Am I missing something about the eyes, the chin, the dimples, the double-joints, the signature, and the ever-important for politics "vision thing?" Do you want me to write in Greek? Spanish? Russian? What the f--- is wrong with you people in California? May I make a movie, please? Pretty please? Hey kids, the stone cold bottom line for above and below the line people is that merit matters, but in Hollywood, not all that much. Who you know is "it" they say, and I can maybe accept that, but what is wrong here when we have the merit box checked, plus "the family" has apparently been making movies out here with "black" money since Fagan & Becker sang "Show business kidsmaking movies of themselves, they don't give a f*** about anybody else."
Well, I made middle-class wages, and I'm no James Bond, so.....ZZZZZZZ
Dan fans, vinyl is king, so always remember to lift up the tonearm after "King of the World," because doomsday has been delayed many times by the H-man. Wild & Woolly California? Arnold, you can get your butt out of office and keep it, but will somebody please tell Obama you are not fixing this crapped-out economy with my money unless I have some say-so?
Has anyone sabotaged Palin's bus yet? Just kidding, assho***.
About twenty-three years after I told someone spooky I had an idea for a little "spy movie," a guy who may actually know somebody in the Holly-hood took some pages. He said positive things about my writing, so now, 10 million dollar a movie actress types enjoy shopping with threadbare Mr. Hughes at the Salvation Army Store. If we had lunch instead of bogus intrigue, here's what I'd say to her:
"Uh, I saw that movie...what was it called? And, uh, I really, uh...would like to, uh, maybe uh, could we? Is this real? Someday, maybe...uh...Can I have some more coffee?"
Yes, the shock would be too great for my little 145 I.Q. brain after decades of Scr(i)pt and Creative Screenwriting, then going west and being treated like a pariah. Unfortunately, there's no RKO for sale, and I don't seem to ever have much more than $20 dollars on me. Spies like that "cop code" where 20 means location, but have ya'll considered there is something, maybe many things, 200 - 22,000 miles up that know way too much about my "20." "Fight fair, not like rodents" is the Hughes battle cry among the rich and famous.
Moe Howard of the Three Stooges knew that when you toss down the cheese, men & mice will go separate ways, and I find it no "coincidence" grandpa kept them under contract long past their prime, and also not coincidentally, I did see a living color Moe, Larry, and replacement Curly at the drive-in with mom and dad. We made that movie? Holy cow! Seems the Stooges were going to the moon, then grandpa helped send real astronauts, and I get treated like this?
We divert from the prepared text to say I'm mighty pissed at the photo on the inside front and back cover of Call Me Pat: The Autobiography of the Man Howard Hughes Chose to Lead Hughes Aircraft. It should have been on my wall a long time ago, and now it will, or I guess the Thousand Oaks policeman will find an "unidentified body."
Did the FBI bring me cocaine in 1977? Did the FBI try to kill me in 2008? Did the FBI really have to shoot and kill Imam Luqman Ameen Abdullah? Did the "soup kitchen" Imam even exist? "race42012.com," eh? I'll blow them all out of the water, if I can ever get out of Thousand Oaks, California, that is.
In the 1960's, it was drugs, drugs, drugs, and thank God I was both too young and too far away to travel to Woodstock, New York. Spilling over into the 1970's, for about the first half of that decade, the subculture was still drugs, drugs, drugs, but they were not as good, except marijuana, so when Chevy Chase reminded us of Gerald Ford's clumsiness, at my spy boot camp college, we laughed--a lot.
Sadly, the second half of the 1970's turned narcissistic, a word the CIA tells me I'm not supposed to use, but this is a retrospective application of the label. Good cocaine? What a bright late 70's idea to make people artificially peppy, but alas, our family dog named "Peppy" was run over during one of #5's Almost Famous style parties. Question: Who went to the police station to determine Peppy's fate? In other words, what kind of valiant suburban hippie boy would go to the police during a party very much like the one in the movie?
That's me, the leader, and as usual, the policeman either didn't know nothin', or he was lying, because Peppy was found dead-on-road, and I did not leave the gate open, but my sister has held this canine fatality against me to this day. Late 70's pep led to a thriving industry in the 1980's, when the subculture was all about making money any way you could. Illegal, quasi-legal, on the books legal--everybody was making money except poor me.
Yes, someday we'll have the courtroom Powerpoint slide of want-ad traffic when Hughes was depositing a paycheck vs. looking, looking, looking for work. Rigged? I think so, but the old chums were always willing to parade me around on Friday night and have supposedly spontaneous conversations with drab old spies who always seemed disinterested--in murdering me, that is.
Oh, the hometown advantage! I'll get it back somehow, maybe with a campaign commercial that recreates me chasing drug-running spooks through an intersection on two wheels right in front of the policeman, who merely shook his head as if to say, "It's just Hughes out chasing spies." Moving to the 1990's, the zeitgeist got digitalized, and when Hughes tried to write his first book, many, many floppy discs were corrupted, I now suspect by rodents hacking away upstairs. "Friends" thought this could not happen, but they were part of the "Death threat, what death threat?" crowd.
Speaking of that first book, I did get a bit confused with roughly a half-dozen agents and three publishers interested, resulting in only a cardboard box full of compliments. Ouch! Bygones be bygones? Don't think so, and clever individuals have let me know sales are brisk in China on the second book, which exists in the USA as only a Microsoft computer file. Who is "free" around here, anyhow? Never mind.
Back to subculture, the computer worship of the 1990's, and the hacking you all enjoy has caused a pain in the neck for Golden Boy, because getting into DOD computers wouldn't be any "fun" if you get caught, but mysteriously, "they" don't. Why do people look at me crazily when I say you need a black & white screen and carrot-ridden command prompts to really know anything about computers? They look at me that way because I was supposed to launch a Minuteman missile or two based on one trip to Omaha, Nebraska in 1979.
Wow! When Bush went there on 09/11/2001, "they" wouldn't let him do a thing, but husky .mil spooks toting little gas cans to the Chevron was the manner in which "they" let me know I was cleared on that caper, and need I mention the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act passed in 1978, right before the trip to Omaha? Does eating in Italian restaurants count in obtaining an FISA order? Just wondering.
See how "they" are? Can't beat 'em, join 'em? I beg your pardon. I have all of the money, and I am running for president, if you don't mind. Moving along to the current decade of cat-herding, it looks like the new subculture is all about paranormal events and powers. I've decided I am not expending my precious time writing to the DOD Inspector General to tell of how I know objects flying around my room does not indicate the work of witches, warlocks, or E.T.'s.
Nope, just another Hughes toy applied toward driving the boss nuts, and this is not unusual, it is totally Americana to keep certain things from the boss. Ah, but Mr. Hughes knows his power supplies, his plugs & jacks, and thanks to NASA, his ions, too. This has all of the other defense contractors trippin' over the fact I am honest, and though I did not help a little old lady across the street the day I wrote this piece, I did give one some of my envelopes, which I use to send-in FOIA requests.
Real gov'ment types, you'd better get cracking, because the spykids I grew up with are all in their 50's now, and we just might get around to reordering the whole terrorist-coddlin', E.T.-chasin' mess on the back of an IHOP placemat.
The ways of spying I will never know, but "they" do magically help me unravel some things, like how I broke up my own police killing in the mid-1990's. How did I do that? More than luck, I believe, because another Hughes-ism is, "When the policeman looks scared, something is going on."
There are "body-doubles" and "look alikes," so tomorrow I will share some infuriating "spy talk" spewed by one of the latter when I was invited to visit a clinic that had moved to make sure I have a heart attack and die. Fortunately, I almost had a coronary over the weekend due to a "close encounter" with a Hollywood female who shall remain nameless. The family said not to name-drop, so as I bellow regularly, "William follows the rules, William shall make the rules" (someday).
C-SPAN rocks when Mr. Hughes is temporarily housed and watching. Early a.m. in the House of Representatives is a bit like 1970's "Open Mike Night" at the college town, pot smoke haze, marijuana a $10 ticket coffee house/tea room. Do those people work three days a week? I think so, but you can always "buttonhole" them on the weekend when they come home and hear gripes about the Wall Street Journal verified lack of jobs, jobs, jobs.
That's why the reps started hollering "Tanker, tanker, tanker!" with Mr. Hughes watching. As I like to say, "They know things." Well, what I know is I make money either way with the USAF E.T.-chasin' European consortium, or possibly some home cookin' in Washington State. Back in early 2008, I liked the Air Force idea, but that was before a national mugging, so now I'd say maybe Seattle needs some jingle for more dark roast. Dirty, dirty, dirty either way, Jose!
No one has been very kind to me for years and years until lately. The downfall "procedure" starts in a manner described by singer/songwriter Sheryl Crow as involving snipers on the roof, and you may have chalked-up those lyrics as artistic license, but I'm here to tell you it's real.
Let's dispense with a Missouri-based inside joke as I ask, "Crow, is it Cicero's or Talanya's for pizza?" On the former, I'm quite sure U. City Loop widebody thugs would help us out to such a degree, we could take a window seat, whereas at the other location, I know for a fact the policeman dines there, especially when Mr. Hughes is waiting on carry-out. To be more succinct, I think our security could be guaranteed in either location, but by who we dare not ask.
Galloping on to the topic, I frankly think Sally Ride needs her head examined by a qualified professional, because flying that shuttle until 2014 on a shoestring is going to, I fear, lead to 21 of something or other, and that's not a lucky number in this context. NASA, did you say "de-orbit" the International Space Station in 2016? Why not right now? Yes, Apollo explorers, as opposed to spyonauts, agree with me on the bad boy activity aboard that big waste of time and money.
Moving on to the Defense Pentagon, Soldier Boy could not look worse with with crackpot satellite protective schemes so poorly thought out, the MIT man was heard howling, "What the hell are we doing?" What the problem is we indeed "need to know," but with what they present for public consumption, it looks to me like we will need an Exxon-Mobil station halfway to Mars, and I just don't see that as feasible, although once again, I'd make money on the deal.
Ready for a full-scale nuclear attack on these United States, soldier? I don't think so, when 500 million in the 2011 budget that was earmarked for studying "Space Situational Awareness (SSA) got pushed back to 2015, and believe it or not, as a homeless person, I'm right on top of this concept when fat ladies block the aisle in Ralph's as they reach for a box of Frosted Flakes.
What did Tony the Tiger say? Grrrrreat! Uh, not applicable, I'm afraid, with the "Three Middle East wars + mini-depression + cuckoo bird space "program." I'm not Barack Obama, but I suspect he's going to trash NASA's house in a bad way, and that's just a crying shame from these quarters, considering my 8 mm film and one-quarter inch audio tape of the Apollo 11 landing are being held hostage by extremists of some sort.
At least I'm out, as Navy grandma would say, "running around," but that has yet to secure my place at the table in a military/civilian space race non-program that is as confused and archaic as the tiny LEM computer that really did put us on the moon. When the alarms were going off in July, 1969 the 14 year-old version of me knew what they meant, and I kept thinking, "Don't turn back." My latest joke line on this? Neil Armstrong, I gather, is a lot like me, so he won't want to meet me, but maybe "Buzz" will.
Navy knew I could hit the big floating hook all of these years, and this is what I got? Say it is right, just, legal, or moral. Go ahead...make my day.
BAD NEWS: No more (cheap) coffee at McDonald's, where this occurred. GOOD NEWS: Someone who seemed to be a close associate of the McDonald's founding family stopped by to chat with me.
First, let's make this DICK NIXON "PERFECTLY CLEAR": Open season on murdering members of my family is over. What relatives of mine am I sure, or strongly suspect, were murdered?
JAMES LEONARD (Maternal Grandfather) MARGARET LEONARD (Maternal Grandmother) MARGARET HUGHES (Mother) DORIS HEARING (Aunt) ROBERT BLAND (Step-Grandfather) HOWARD HUGHES, SR. (Paternal Great-Grandfather)
Why? Why were they murdered? Not sure, because as I like to say, I don't get too many intelligence briefings. In fact, I get none. But, I do know three of the aforementioned individuals died in a hospital, which might explain why I once walked out of a relative's ICU room saying, "This is too nuts," and I did not know who I was. Got evidence to the contrary? Let's see it in court, because maybe C-SPAN could sell some soap.
My one and only colonoscopy? Drama? We had it big-time, complete with very nervous relatives in the waiting room, a "missing" doctor, a lengthy pep talk from the anesthesiologist, a two-hour plus wait on the gurney with IV line in, an obvious .mil spook nursing staff in the procedure room, and America, what was my wisecrack? ANSWER: "The next one is gonna be at Walter Reed." Do I ever really know what is going on? Not really, but that adventure they say is an every ten year event for polyp-free me, yet maybe not when the spies ripped my colon so bad the very next year with a GI tract infection I don't want to talk about, or write about, particularly in polite company.
Bottom line? I survived. Medical care? Medical? Forget it, but "they" still want me to stop by a clinic to just chat that no longer serves homeless people on a walk-in basis. No way, but now you need an appointment in the "Homeland," which is coming to resemble the Fatherland a bit too much. Does the Department of Homeland Security limo idle at the curb in front of your bagel shop during a "convo" with the more law-based types? No, it does not, and do not lie to me.
Poisoning? There's just no counting-up the incidents of viral, bacterial, pharmaceutical, and downright deadly crap that has been put in my coffee. The old ones call it a "Mickey," whereas the stuff they give me probably has a very long molecular name. Not like a first love, that first poisoning. First love "they" turned into a Jesus Freak, and she disappeared, but I see there is a street in Ventura, California named after her. Coincidence? Don't think so, Jack.
Back to February, 1986, I had just eaten some leftovers, when clutching the gut, down I went to the floor with intense abdominal pain. "This is it," I thought, but why? (I am only 21 years from cracking the not-so-secret ID secret). I struggled to my feet, and two cats in the spy home I was housesitting started meowing and dancing on their hind legs. Weird! You bet, but hey, why do you think the Pharoes had a lot of cats around?
After the pain subsided, then I was scared, so I called home to share how I was glad to still be alive. Papa Hughes just laughed, which I thought was a kind of strange response, but then again, he's the guy who said, more than once, "I've almost died many times." I could never figure why he said that until now, a few dozen poisonings and near-death experiences later.
It's another Hughes thing, and if you wish you were me, you are truly a moron.
Am I really being held incommunicado in Thousand Oaks, California? Answer: Yes. More tomorrow, or Monday, because "they" just told me Howard Hughes' grandson (the real one) would be allowed to live that long.
Mafia...it isn't what you think it is, and what an insult to Italian-Americans that Hollywood crap is.
If I have any "covert lawyers," they'd better be working on the name change from Staples to Hughes Center. Yes, I too can look cool while very tall, mostly African-American men shoot baskets so readily, isn't the final score typically 222-198, or something similar? Marlin Brando said, "I could have been a contender," but Hughes says, "I could have been a Freudian," until "they" stole my truck with about a dozen unread psychoanalytic psychiatry themed books. Humor--it's a powerful defense when you've been seething on Veterans Day over stupid "small wars" with too great a chance to become big that are sending back 27.5 percent of "The Troops" with either Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or Major Depression, not to mention unprecedentedly severe physical disabilities, because either the bad guys can mix explosives in a bathtub, or we--ahem, ahem--provide them with some to justify our American Charlemagne Complex.
The late Abbie Hoffman wanted to levitate the Pentagon, whereas I want to build Soldier Boy a new one, so he'd better not kill me, because we don't have to like each other to do business. Tomorrow, the painful humor piece, which I wrote as part of a continuing effort to, though NOT a spy, teach Rumsfeldian high school dropout soldier recruits to spy properly, if illegally, in the "Homeland."
Good thing I get some news off Soldier Boy's Internet, because let me tell you, moving the website of a former spiritual leader for 9/11 hijackers and a Ft. Hood deranged killer to a server in Culver City is not enough to point the Microsoft arrow to Hughes.
Are you MI types nuts? I'm not.
In my fictional screenplay about a second American civil war, titled II, which is already, drama queens, carrying a copyright per the 1977 Copyright Act, (thanks for caring), the character named "ADMIRAL TINKHAM" says, to the naughty spygirl named after a street in Clayton, Missouri upon which I used to live, "Give me the card." The card in question will be the movie version of the stupidest strategic real-life item on Planet Earth--a credit card sized "wallet card" with nuclear attack codes on it carried by the President of the United States.
Are you all nutcases at the Pentagon? No, and you know I'm not, which is why the old Watergate Spooks provided me with yet another highly specialized publication, like Microwaves & RF, that featured an interview with the real-life version of Admiral Tinkham. This one is called Seapower, I guess all one word, but the "Sea" is in black ink, and the "Power" in brown. "Color Kooks," does that mean anything?
Don't know, but the good admiral, I can assure you, would be one of the first s---talkers drop-kicked out the door in any potential Hughes Administration. The Maf-IA may have stole everything I own, but among those books was one I had pretty much already read that told me of big satellite early warning of nuke attack failures, and the one they described the least may have been due to a highly crafty perp--my grandfather.
He did not like nuclear weapons, don't you know? So, what did those damn Soldier Boys do? Why, they blew the things up underground right down the road from grandpa's blacked-out top floor windows. Can't a man run an honest casino in the USA? I've concluded the answer is "No," so all the rodents are awaiting my trip to Pinnacle Entertainment to say, with resolve, "You're all fired!" and get out the door before the inevitable private security guard arrives. Las Vegas police? Aw, forget it, they won't shoot me and make up a story, will they? Nah, why bother?
Back to high-level orbital "Ha ha's," this trick may have seriously tested the Soldier Boy's "DOUBLE-DUTCH CHOCOLATE ICBM'S A' COMIN' WARNING SYSTEM," then Howard watched them sweat with his office phone conveniently uplinked to his very own satellite. Hey, when do I get my own.....? Never mind. Anyway, when the real Admiral Tinkham was asked about "tactical generals" tempted to "personally direct battle at the tactical level," I think he was, as I say, "talking in code" about taking the fabled "button" away from the president.
Shame on you, soldiers and sailors! The nuclear warfighting strategy is supposed to be top-down and invested in one dog only--the Commander in Chief. Right? Maybe not, because in my stolen from me book I read about how one James Earl Carter changed the nuking strategy from Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD), or "launch it all," to something more like Star Trek andCaptain Picard's "Photon Torpedo Spread Alpha," meaning a more measured response to getting nuked.
"Tactical satellites are coming soon," said the real admiral, when I'm quite sure Hughes has made them for, oh, 30 years or so. "Detect WMD's at a distance"? Hughes has been there, done that, so do the Space Shuttle spyonauts really have to trade jibes with me and act like I've got a nuke in my homeless guy backpack? NASA and the Department of Defense should know the policeman occasionally searches me, but not the backpack, because the police know more than you think, and always have.
Truth is, I only hollered at the policeman one time, by telling him he should not give me a ticket for 32 in a 30 m.p.h. zone right after I graduated from bad boy driving school, due to excessive Fiat Spyder ZOOM-ZOOM, and now, Fiat is apparently taking over the world, not me. "Get out of the car, Mr. Hughes, you're disgusting" the man in blue said in 1978. "So is your speedtrap village," I thought, as I unknowingly led the blind by driving a sightless "friend" home.
Blind leading the blind? I used to call this deniable, factless, empirical void, where black clothing and vehicles are so en vogue "president practice" in honor of the National Security Act of 1947, but now you can call it the biggest crime run on one guy since man discovered fire. Or, shall we call it a "real-life Flint movie"? Sorry girls, I have nothing to say off-the-record, and I intend to put more than one president in jail, plus we have to face certain facts, such as, I am not as good-looking as James Coburn.
My favorite Jerry Brown anecdote goes back, predictably enough, to the 1970's, and it is still quite relevant, given the AARP magazine I read today on the real causes of our health care blues was published well before the Democrats passed a new means of bankrupting us--again. The way the story went, someone asked then-gubernatorial candidate Brown what he thought of national health plans. He reportedly said something like, "You want me to pay for all of your smoking, drinking, and red meat eating? Forget it!"
That made sense then, and 30 or so years later, it's still "radical" to focus on a healthy diet instead of pill-pushing. Careful William, because some of Howard Hughes' meticulous instructions on how to prepare food might not be Maf-IA bullfeathers. Nah, "they" never poisoned the man, or me, and Charlie lost a pint of blood through his nose in 1989 because, I suppose, he "shook the wrong hand." 1989 was a very bad year for the Hughes clan, but we shall not digress.
Liberals? Don't need 'em, and I used to be one. Why the classic middle-age defection from muddleheaded Green Party "We hate smokestacks" knee-jerking? Don't know, except to say when I wrote to the Libertarian Party in 2002, they wrote back; an act of bravery considering somebody still wanted to blame me for 9/11. Howard Dean? Never heard back from him, but is the reason you took all of my stuff the computer file of Tom Kean's signature when I sent him a chapter of Gangster Nation? Never mind, but you can be sure Howard Dean's son will never see Area 51, because there's nothing there of any interest to stylish E.T.-chasers up in the Conejo Hills, anyway.
Yes, it seems like another lifetime when I sent faxes at Staples to, among other distinguished officials, California Attorney General Jerry Brown. The surveillance record will show I never got much help, but when the Clayton, Missouri policemen started wearing the wrap-around shades in 2005-2006, the CHP later donned theirs, wearing the grin in Colinga, Los Banos, Crows Landing, and more locations in 2008, even when Hughes was weaving and could not get the tampered-with seat belt to buckle.
Ah, it's all a matter of tools, don't you get it? So, were the intel types frustrated by my on-the-road repair of my seat belt so I did not have to hear SIX ding-dings repeated over and over, thanks to the lunatics at Ford Motor Company? If I buy an economical Mazda 3 someday, "they" will obsess over the "3," so I'd better not. How about a Bentley, with Longhorn horns on the hood?
Again, never mind. Though nearly 2010, we seem to be hurtling along in a mode where many spy, but no one tells Hughes a thing, except when someone actually verbalizes that they used to work for Hughes Aircraft. As some have discovered, I will have a pleasant, rational discussion with you if you talk about topics like the deeefense industry, and not "time travel" psychotherapy, colon hydrotherapy, or aroma therapy, although the surveillance record should show I try not to smell bad as a homeless individual.
All raging spygirls should know those conversations are unlikely to be the last "convo" out here in the Republic of Arnie Pacifica, a very different kind of place than the states I've lived in before, like Missouri, Wisconsin, New York, and New Hampshire. I do not know what is the matter with you people, but as the policeman says when he is lazy, "the investigation is ongoing." Maybe this really is a new covert nation out here, with legal marijuana and a death with "dignity" way for grandma to just turn herself off with the aid of her physician.
I'm calling it WANVORCA, and I think the capital city is Las Vegas. Does the U.N. know about this?
On my old website, AbolishTheCIA.org, I mentioned the fact a truck rental company called me "WAYNE HUGHES" on the rental contract, did I not? This was because I had referred to the American people as "pilgrims" in ridiculing a dangerous apathy regarding what the National Security State can do to you. Back then, in mid-2006 to June 2007, I did not know this Hughes was that Hughes. Now, after a recent "Four Cop Stop," during which I heard the radio crackle with real problems, as opposed to me yelling at a guy with unleashed big dogs in a park that requires a leash by law, I AM ON THE WARPATH.
Yes, it is true I cried over being subjected to spykid parties in First Grade, but "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" got famous later, right Navy JAG? My, my, the Clinton-hating Navy JAG is on the "Goin' to Jail List" now, because Hughes can make lists too. How about hiding in the basement coal bin as a kid so as not to go to Karate class? Yes, DOJ, I did it! Little league? Not for me, I thought, but the old man dragged me back to the ballfield. Between that, and the St. Louis Cardinals beating the mighty Yankees in 1964, the love affair with baseball was on.
He's a leader, not a "joiner," so what do you think happened on the baseball diamond? DUH. Who's the leader on the field, girls? The catcher. This is baseball fact, not delusion. Why do you think the catcher is always looking over into the dugout? For signs from the manager, but we shall not discuss "signs," or I might puke. What do you suppose happened with young Mr. Hughes behind the plate? Steal a base? Are you kidding? OUT! And, you may now sit down, please. Tricky slide, eh? CRUNCH. You are out sir, and bye, bye. See 'ya later.
So what did they do? "They" gave me the ball, and the mound, and I should never have gotten out of that business. Pro baseball pitchers, it's just like being president, isn't it? Everyone is looking at you, and nothing is going to happen until you do something/anything. Ah, but then the "fun" began when the umpire hollered, "Balk!" Wait a minute...I had picked the guy off clean as a Nixon hound's tooth. BALK? What are you talking about? I thought the coaches were going to engage in fisticuffs, kind of like if you don't leash your f---ing dog in Thousand Oaks/Westlake Village, California.
You spooks are dirty, dirty, liars. ESP? No, but an 18 year-old version of this Hughes was heard to say, "Life is rigged." By age 21, the saying was, "Everything is political," and you want to say I'm nuts out here in "Fruit & Nutland?" Does CHARLIE DUKE want his family photo album back from the lunar surface? Just wondering.
And, I'm also curious about whether we can have a low-key inauguration. I'm a very modest guy.
Why did the U.S. Navy warn me off drug dealing by compelling me to note that in the very first drug dealer's home I visited (1973), the guy had a big handgun on the coffee table? It worked, because I thought, "Why the hardware over a friendly little marijuana transaction?" Retrospective torture victim reflection has me wondering why I did not get the Good Humor Truck a catchy tune for its PA system and sell lots of drugs. Seems you can't be touched by the law or spies in the USA if you do.
The two biggest mistakes in my life? It's an interrelated "twofer" of NOT doing something illegal, like sell drugs, plus completing the groundwork for closing-down the FBI by telling them about a drug-related murder. I don't watch TV much, but I thought they were supposed to care. Oh, I get it, not when thirty-seven year old plans to "frame Hughes" are hanging in the balance.
This, as I've unfamously said, "Ain't never gonna work," and now the September 28, 2009 edition of cuckoo-bird Steve Forbes rag told me all about how marijuana is pretty much legal. Okay, then please tell me how I've been tortured by every legal definition over a relatively small quantity of high-quality marijuana hidden in the parents 1970's basement. I've told the surveillance gods, and their humanoid manifestations for years that 1/4 of the "good stuff" was pre-ordered a la Sam's Club, 1/4 constituted the sacred hippie stash that was stretched-out, and 1/2 was smoked-up in Irwin Hall on the Lindenwood College campus in St. Charles, Missouri over one academic year. Did you know a 1970's CIA kid dorm party could consume an ounce of pot in one night? As I holler to no one, "These are the facts!" of national security state blackmail attempts that go down with a mighty THUD.
Ah, but hold on, your name is Hughes, so "secret courts" are activated, and apparently people went there to lie, lie, lie--in 1978, 1981, 1986, 1989, 1991, and WOWIE ZOWIE, the one in 1999 might have been legal, because "they" put me on a boat with real-live terrorists. (Don't try this without professional consultation). Even the federal courts, I've discovered, talk in "code," so when the FBI and Justice Department people apologized for "overreaching" in 1985, they were talking about spying on my spouse and I in 1980-82. Then, "they" went in and got more secret court orders. Why?
Not to worry William, because if I make president, there will be a nice atrium where the DOJ "secret court" used to be, and we can all think about how "secret court" should have been an American oxymoron, but with Jimmy Carter's Navy passing the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) a.k.a. "The Get Bill Hughes Act of 1978," I can read between the lines of an old News Bank article that told me in the first year of FISA there were only two orders, that being, no doubt, for myself and my roommate.
Maplewood, Missouri it was. And, I've learned police agencies have long memories too, regarding how NO DRUGS WERE SOLD on Gayola Place, so when twenty-five years later, the supposedly mentally ill Air Force Girl would not come out and play, as she was reportedly "holed-up" with a weapon, the entire police force came out when I called, and I now realize this was because...well, those military intelligence types will kill you, don't you know? "For Sale" sign on the house a few months later? More military spyin' rodents caught by Hughes.
Yes, the "drug frame" goes back and forth in time, like California loonies think I do. In 1972, the "never famous" soundman was approached at a Great American Rock Band in the Suburban Park event and asked something like, "Do you know where I can get some acid?" The response was, "No, and go away, I'm busy." Yet in totalitarian Amerika, some spy family saw that approach way back then, held the lie close to their vests, and actually think not selling drugs and lies to the contrary mean something in 2009, when this man has been running for president "in the black" for approaching three years now.
Get out of St. Louis? It's advisable when the Army JAG and CIA drug sting house team-up to literally put out the window "frame" in the back yard after the drug selling team has shown Mr. Hughes how today's meth dealer operates without ever talking to them or entering the drug house. As for the female that led that crew repeatedly humping the steering wheel of their van as she passed by, I shall reserve comment except to say I was tempted, but would like to stay alive, if at all possible.
How can "they" keep making up B.S. when I caught the Arizona and Florida 9/11 CIA hijacking helpers? Hey, hey, if we ever do have the High Noon scene, I've got a howitzer to your popgun, so consequently, my EE and Series I bonds seem to be stolen, Treasury Department, and I'm not jumping through more hoops like a damn trained dog. Bank of New York, formerly Mellon? See you in court. I'm "done" playing, but really, I never was. Hey honey, three Directors of National Intelligence must have known about my plight, and if you think there is something wrong with me demanding they land in jail, move to Cuba, or a nation with a name ending in "stan."
How about Presidents of the United States? Are these fellows goin' to jail? As we said in the old neighborhood, "Absolutely!" I smoked marijuana socially over 30 years ago, and you guys killed 3,000 people 8 years ago? I am confident that "moral equation" will someday have me standing behind more microphones than you've ever seen in one place on your flat-screen TV after a big three-way of an electoral, not sexual nature, saying, "Let's break with close election tradition and count all the votes!"
I'm the big "leftist?" Not on immigration, border security, states rights, guns, welfare cheats, or national security. Hello? Verizon, can you hear me now? Navy? Now Navy, are you through pickin' my trash? New slogan? Yes, I agree with the Navy Times letter-writers who thought "A Global Force for Good" is dumb. You sailors remind me of a patient of mine with schizophrenia who would often say, "I think too much." Yet shazam, he had the good sense to repeatedly toss his Goodwill Store special black & white TV in the dumpster until I finally laid down the law and said, "Ronald, we're not buying another one."
I can only conclude sailors are out there wasting diesel fuel with little to do except psychoanalyze the U.S. Navy slogan, so I've got (another) idea. How about a photographic of a spy ship, a couple of destroyers, an aircraft carrier, and a half-dozen or so nuclear subs on the surface. The slogan?