Ana and I in Sarajevo. Happy Anniversary

The sun was a sickly yellow ball suspended in the soupy smoke and haze at the end of the valley. The cold reached out from the shadows of the Austrian quarter. What remained of the day ran as a narrow channel of light along the wide promenade. Further on the Western world gave way to the old Turkish bazaar of Bashcharshija. The line was sudden and unmistakable. Vasha Miskin became Sarachi as neatly laced cobblestones changed to uneven quarry stones. The Western philosophy of anonymous commerce gave way to intimate passageways and narrow alleys interwoven with crooked arteries of small shops and Eastern-style kafanas.

Ana and I crossed from West to East past a cordon of soldiers hunting deserters. Muslim men filled the walled courtyard of the Gazi Husref beg Mosque. Its marvelously tall spire disappeared high above ancient maples shrouding the lane. At the head of the valley, the crumbling walls of the fortress Jekovac looked down upon the city. Autumn leaves fell like snow upon the smooth stones. For a moment any distinction between past and present became irrelevant.

“Such a pretty place,” I remarked.

“You should have seen Sarajevo before the war,” Ana remarked wistfully. “It was so beautiful. We really had everything here. We had the mountains and skiing. In a few hours you could be on the sea. There was opera and Rock music. You could go for Chinese food by the river, see a French film at the theater and stop for coffee in Bashcharshija. And friends… we would all go for parties in the mountains: Serbs, Croats and Muslims. It didn’t matter who you were. None of us had learned to hate each other yet. Guys would play guitar under the stars and everyone would eat and sing and…”

Her words trailed away into some distant and private memory. She looked at me as if something had been stolen from her. “You could be any religion or no religion. We celebrated Hanukah with Jewish friends, Bajram with Muslim neighbors and Orthodox Christmas with Serbs. We were so lucky to see the world with so many different eyes. It was like we could see just a little bit more of God.”

“So what happened?’

Ana only shrugged, as if the weight of the answer was too much to bear.

We wandered through the old Turkish market, definitely but not purposely towards the ruins of the Library. It was once a beautiful building, dominating the end of the valley, where the river cut among the deep gorge on its way to Pale. Ana could not bring herself to look at it, and instead kept her eyes to the ground until we crossed to the river. Incendiary shells from Serb guns had destroyed the library, and with it a treasury of Bosnia’s heritage. The steps where Austria’s Archduke stood before being assassinated in 1914 led to the scorched and blackened shell of a building. Ana hurried onto the bridge, and leaned at the rail. I joined her there an instant later.

“Look,” she said as the setting sun cast a pale orange glow upon the shallow waters of the Miljatcka.

The river ran straight through the city between high stone walls. Buildings crowded to either side. The bridges appeared stacked upon one another. As people moved back and forth across them their long shadows were cast upon the glittering sunlit waters of the river. Pigeons gathered in the stone arches of the Princip Bridge. I looked at Ana, her gaze fixed on the city. The city and sunset were reflected in her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” I said softly, as much about the city as for her.

I could hardly take my eyes off her and would have been content to remain there forever. Ana’s shoulder fell quite casually against mine. The energy passing with that touch was every bit as powerful and fluid as river.

“Do you have a girlfriend somewhere?” she asked.

“No not really,” I said.

“You’re not married, are you?”

“Definitely not,” I laughed.

“How come? There isn’t something wrong with you?” she crossed the bridge and I followed.

“No.”

The cobbled streets of Bistrik climbed steeply before us. This was old Sarajevo, a collection of mostly Muslim neighborhoods called Mahalas. The Mahalas were almost separate communities unto themselves, collections of homes where clear distinctions between neighbor and relation had long ago dissolved. There were houses and families that went back generations, even centuries. Ana was a stranger here as much as I was. The odd looks from doorways and windows only confirmed that fact.

“Be careful what you say here,” Ana warned at barely a whisper. “Many here were supporters of Tsatso.”

I knew the name well In the first weeks and months of the war Musan “Tsatso” Topalovich and other would-be warlords had helped rally the city’s defense. His men fought bloody, wasteful battles from the trenches a few hundred meters above Bistrik. But his forced conscriptions, executions and brutality against Serbs and Croats in the city soon besieged the city from within as well. A government crackdown finally ended his reign of terror. Doubtless, Tsatso’s ad hoc defense those first days and months had save the city, but at a terrible cost. For the Muslims of Bistrik, however, Tsatso was not a criminal but a savior who had saved them from annihilation.

“But Tsatso is dead now,” I observed.

“Here he is a martyr and a hero.”

“Is he a war criminal or a hero, in your opinion?”

The question made her visibly uncomfortable. She kept looking to the darkened houses.

“It is best that we not talk about such things, especially not here, and especially not us.”

I didn’t pursue the subject, seeing how it upset her so. We found a set of stone steps and paused for a moment to look out across the city. Bashcharshija was laid out before us, the red tiled rooftops set ablaze by the final assertions of daylight.

“So how come you never got married?” We started down the uneven steps.

“Honestly,” I replied, “I don’t think I ever will. I have this foolishly unrealistic idea of what marriage is supposed to be: totally equal, friends, lovers, soul mates. I know it’s an unattainable expectation, but I couldn’t be happy if I settled for something less.”
“If you hate it so much why not change your expectation?”

“I don’t know,” I said, a bit forlorn. “Guess I’m just hopeless, and part of me thinks I’ll actually find what I’m looking for.”

“But if it causes you so much pain?’

“Right now I’ve got no reason to change. All I have to worry about is my cat.”

“A cat?’

“A big fat one!” I opened my arms wide.

“How big?” she gasped.

“Well not so big. Seems like it for how much he eats.”

“And his name?”

“Manhattan.”

“Like the city?”

“Like the movie: Woody Allen. I was watching it when a neighbor came over with this little black and white kitten. I had no interest in it, but the kitten sat on my shoulder through the whole movie, and by then I was hooked.”

“Fall in love fast, eh?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“And you have no kids?”

“None that I know of. What about you, ever see yourself married?’

“I told you, my parents are divorced. They had an awful marriage. The whole thing really jaded me to marriage.”

“Really?’

“I think that a man expands himself in marriage. He expects to have all his needs filled. He wants a maid, a cook, a mother and a whore. A woman tends to sacrifice to fill that need. She loses herself to become those things. She gives up her need and identity for him, and freedom for her children. That’s what happened to my mom, and I don’t want to lose myself.”

“What about children?”

She smiled mischievously. “None that I know of.”

Our eyes met, and for the first time I thought it would be nice to kiss her. I felt sure she was thinking the same thing, but I blushed and looked away. From the corner of my eye I could see that Ana was blushing too.

We turned down a long sloping lane bounded to one side by the towering walls of the Sarajevo Pivara, or brewery. A fire hose carried water from the Pivara to a gurgling spigot. The natural spring within the walls of the brewery proved to be one of the few reliable sources of water for the entire city. There was a line of haggard looking folks waiting to fill water jugs at the spigot. Ana stopped at the top of the lane. Her face darkened with a memory.

“I hate this place,” she said quietly. “We came here for water the first year of the war, my sister and me. It was a dangerous time. Nobody trusted anybody. A lot of Muslim refugees were coming into the city to escape the Serbs, and they needed some to place to live. Some Muslims in our neighborhood wanted to put us out of our place because our mother is a Croat and my father is a Serb. They wanted to give our place to some refugees. They would see us here waiting in line for water, with the rest of the city, and calls us Chetnik whores. Sometimes others would join in, cursing us, spitting on us or spilling our water.”

“You must hate them?”

“You must remember that real Chetniks were murdering and raping thousands of Muslims, and the Croatian Army refused to help break the siege. There were no frontlines, not as they are now. It still wasn’t certain that the Serbs would not take the city, and they found some Serbs in the city who were preparing for that. There were Serbs in the city with death lists of Muslim neighbors. Many people in the city simply disappeared. We were just two young girls. One word and we would just disappear. So we would stand there and cry, and wait for our turn for water.”

Ana led me to the courtyard of a small Mosque. Dozens of stone markers could be seen through a small embrasure, the stones sinking gradually beneath deepening grass. The branches of a willow hung in mourning above the stones, lightly brushing their round tops. Ana pressed her cheeks to the iron bars of the embrasure. I put my face close to hers, pretending to look in at the courtyard when I was really looking at her. I breathed in her perfume.

“…but the rain is still pouring down as it has for days,” I said softly, relishing in her nearness, “and the pigeons coo in the attic. They announce the day that has not yet come. My hand becomes stiff from holding the pen, the candle spits and sparks a little as it staves off death. I look upon these rows of words, tombstones of my thoughts, and do not know if I have killed them or given them to life.”

“Mesha Selimovich,” she said, surprised.

“Dervish and Death, my favorite Bosnian novel.”

“You know of Bosnian writers?”

“A little.”

“My grandmother knew him.”

We were very near the river again. The city was quiet, the streets nearly empty…

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Advice for a Young Woman Travelling in Italy

You are young. Now is your time to set the world alight. A time will come when you will hesitate. You do not have those boundaries now. Fall in passionate love just enough to get your heart deeply broken and cry in his arms when you leave. Make that affair a whirlwind in which moments, days and nights blur into a warmth that threatens an upwelling of emotion that never abates. Make it the stuff romance novelists only dream of writing. As you part, look at him one more time and remember those eyes; you will catch a glimpse of those familiar eyes many years later at a café or market square. The moment will set your soul on fire when you need that warmth most. Endure. The broken heart will help the long flight home. Hold it close. Smile of it, shed a tear, and when the grandkids playing in the yard rush to your arms and ask why you are crying hold them close and tell them it is because you love them so much. All of it will be true.


Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. His new book “A Tragic Fate: is an unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com


The Illinois Policy Institute (IPI) is a conservative think tank with offices in Chicago and Springfield, Illinois, and member of the State Policy Network. IPI is a member of the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC) as of 2011. IPI is also a member of ALEC’s Health and Human Services Task Force and Education Task Force. Senior Budget and Tax Policy Analyst, Amanda Griffin-Johnson, presented model legislation (the “State Employee Health Savings Account Act”) to the HHS task force at ALEC’s 2011 annual meeting.[4] Collin Hitt, Director of Education Policy, is a private sector member of the Education Task Force representing IPI. He sponsored the “Local Government Transparency Act” at the ALEC 2011 States and Nation Policy Summit. In its 2006 annual report the Cato Institute states that it made a grant of $50,000 to the Illinois Policy Institute. The Cato Institute is a libertarian think tank founded by Charles G. Koch and funded by the Koch brothers.

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Never a heaven such as this…

I am forever sitting upon that wall on Lido, overlooking the pastel blue-green waters of the lagoon. The Riva di Cortino is deserted behind us, but for the occasional passerby. The domes and towers of Venice are golden in the waning hours of the day. Slate blue curtains of showers sweep across the mountains silhouetting the mainland. Ana is silent beside me. Her legs are crossed, shoes set beside her where she place them. From a small plastic cup she is sipping red wine we purchased with an awful mix of sign language and badly broken Italian. Closing my eyes I seal this image, the memory, there where it shall remain when I should close my eyes to sleep or to leave this world. There I know it shall greet and comfort and soothe me.

There’s a world within that memory. I can hear the lonesome harbor bells, and the gentle slap of lazy waves against the wall. Lazzaretto Vecchio’s crumbling walls and failing terra cotta roofs all overgrown and green with moss and small trees stands amid the channel not a stone’s through like a soft and solemn mortuary. Ana giggles at the yelping of a small dog which trots and blusters laughably before the owner calls it back.

“Oh, I want it!” she exclaims just above a whisper, and with a certain longing. Ana loves dogs and laments there is no room in our tiny condo and with two gregarious cats. I make a face, which seems to entertain her as much as the little scamp. It’s the first I’ve seen her truly happy since the illness crippled her energy and stumbled her spirit. It haunts at the edges of her expression, but affords her this respite.

Some might wish of heaven from this life, but no heaven could ever compare to this moment. There is breath in my lungs, and the moment is as tentative as a dream. How many, I wonder, over the centuries sat upon this very spot and could count themselves as lucky. I might wonder that forever, but the wine is nearly gone. The wind has come up as well, and with it the scent of rain now moving in across the lagoon. The storm to come that night will fall with fury upon Lido. The wind will gush cold through the green painted wooden shutters of the old villa where we are staying. Ana will draw closer to me, mumbling something about the pelting sheets of rain thrown hard against the villa walls, the cacophony of thunder and the spectacular theatre of lightening. I’m biting my lip, fighting back emotion, recollecting the peace and perfection in her eyes. Indeed, there never was a heaven such as this…IMG_0361IMG_0335
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On Love

I’m collecting perspectives. That’s all any of us can do in coming to an understanding of what love is, which is fundamentally what the issue of Gay marriage come down to; Love and the hierarchy of love. That is, which love is valid, and which is not.
So, if in a truly Christian society, particularly one in which the Bible is not only contradictory, what does it mean when even the most pious of men are ultimately judicious in what they will adhere to, and what they will not. If we are told to use this holy book as the moral compass in our lives, and adhere to the interpretations of men who disagree fundamentally from one another, what is left for us? So it becomes a mandate for each person to collect perspectives on the world, and to weigh things not just in the balance, but upon a broader, deeper understanding of love.
I suppose that’s the way I come to some better comprehension of the word, as it is as elusive as defining a day without explaining the rotation of the earth, the waxing and waning of shadows, of morning dew, the urgency of fulfilling each final moment before sunset, or donning a sweater against an evening chill.
How does one comprehend the wind from a single pale word? In it there is limited comprehension for the gentlest of breezes against a humid morning, the rage of a tornado, a howling blizzard wind or the gust that stands out a flag to its fullest glory. There is only a hint of consideration in the word “wind” for the clap of a full sail unfurling, of the thundering surf rushed towards a pristine shoreline, the rattles of trash through an alley, the frosty whistle through a gap in the window. A simple, single definition of love fails us just as surely.
Words fail us, and the heart fails us more. Not in the wish for love, but in the arrogance of ego that we truly comprehend its scope. Young lovers exalt in its electric rush, sweeping them headlong towards the uncertainty of love; to be swept over into the abyss where they are lost, or to settle into something that lasts a lifetime. There is the love in a child’s needing eyes, love in the betrayal and sorrow of a broken heart and an argument, and love in the adoring gaze of a pet.
There is love among friends, between lovers and among enemies. The desperate, dying and downtrodden find love in the rescuing eyes of those who would comfort and save them. Some find love in a glass of wine, or in a wonderful meal, others in the whisper of a sunrise or the majesty of a moment. We love our work and the passion of a cherished painter, or the brilliance of a favorite writer, or in diversity of all things. Many find it in the grace and goodness of god, but who’s god? What form god takes is entirely one’s own definition.
Defining love might be the fool’s way out. No, better to come to it as a science of sorts, in which there will never be a proper or simple definition, but rather a deeper knowledge and understanding.
Love, for me, is changing every day. It is not at all what it was when I first asked my wife to marry me. Indeed, then I would never have imagined it might also serve to highlight my deepest flaws or greatest possibilities, or demand my greatest sacrifices. And love as I understand it now will not be the same as the love my parents know as they celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. But I am hoping, and I am hoping I will understand it a bit better each new day.
It is easy to define marriage in the narrowly focused prism of Right Wing talk radio and television as some sort of Hallmark card defense of that supposed monolithic religious sacrament. The problem with any argument on the Right is that you must either be ignorant of history and the meaning of words- a zealot- or complacently buy their acutely framed definitions.
They will constantly press the definition of marriage as religious, as long as no one asks what religion is exactly on the table, or they attempt to define the tenants of that religion, its associated culture, gender politics, and interpersonal and social power dynamics. As long as one assumes that “religion” refers to a “Father Knows Best” episode, circa 1955 white, upper-middle class, American, suburbia, then everything is fine.
Locked into that Hollywood crafted ideal is the illusion that religion, marriage and sex have been static and unchanged from the dawn of Humanity until women burned their bras and Coloreds took a seat at formerly whites-only lunch counters. After that, all hell broke loose, with everyone thinking that they could just be free, and free to marry whom they chose. Who do they think they are, Americans?
But the history of religion is hardly about which one is best. We’ve seen that the pushiest and most violent often claim that mantle. Rather, the history of religion is really about questioning, about the assertions of the human heart and the ascension of human rights. The Constitution and Declaration of Independence invoked the religious beliefs of the day to assert Secular Humanism. A contradiction, but then so are people. Right?

Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.

CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com


The Illinois Policy Institute (IPI) is a conservative think tank with offices in Chicago and Springfield, Illinois, and member of the State Policy Network. IPI is a member of the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC) as of 2011. IPI is also a member of ALEC’s Health and Human Services Task Force and Education Task Force. Senior Budget and Tax Policy Analyst, Amanda Griffin-Johnson, presented model legislation (the “State Employee Health Savings Account Act”) to the HHS task force at ALEC’s 2011 annual meeting.[4] Collin Hitt, Director of Education Policy, is a private sector member of the Education Task Force representing IPI. He sponsored the “Local Government Transparency Act” at the ALEC 2011 States and Nation Policy Summit. In its 2006 annual report the Cato Institute states that it made a grant of $50,000 to the Illinois Policy Institute. The Cato Institute is a libertarian think tank founded by Charles G. Koch and funded by the Koch brothers.

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Saying Goodye in Sarajevo’s Bombed-out National Library, an excerpt from Everything for Love, a memoir

“This is such a sad place,” said Ana.
She paused at the rubble-strewn steps of the National Library. The city was silent, lulled into a somber peace by a low shroud of funeral gray clouds. They made the archways and galleries of the bombed-out library as deep and mysterious as a cave. There was a stillness to the valley, a muddled quality that left the world distant and out of focus, like an old photograph.
There was a sentry at the corner with a Kalashnikov slung over one shoulder. He looked like a guy from the neighborhood. He watched us curiously for a moment before turning away from the dust thrown up by a passing tank. Ana climbed the steps slowly and went inside without a word. I found her in the shadowy rotunda. Her eyes were closed, face turned upwards to the lattice of the broken ceiling.
I paused beneath an archway, not wishing to disturb such an intimate moment. The air was heavy with the scent of burnt and rotting books. Their ashes lay in heaps among the oriental arches and terraces. Serb shells had shattered many of the massive marble columns and a great pile of rubble stood in the center of the rotunda. High above the thundering wing beats of pigeons disturbed the moment. Ana looked at me, her expression weighted by something.
“Will you tell me now?’ she pleaded. All morning I had teased her about a surprise.
“Let me take a picture of you first.”
“Then you will tell me?”
“Maybe,” I laughed.
“I hate you,” she pouted.
“Be that as it may,” I snapped a picture of her, “but I still won’t tell you.”
“Pease, Bill, don’t be so cruel!”
The more insistent she became the more obstinate I became. Not that the surprise was so great. Rather it was more a gift of hope, a way of making the distance between us a little less painful. Ana danced across the rotunda, framed like an angel in the lens of my camera.
“Did you come to this place before the war?” I asked.
“Oh, it was such a beautiful place. It was, it was like walking into someone’s soul, or the soul of humanity. Ideas, truth and history called from every corner, begging them to take their secrets into your heart. There was a huge painting over there, and books there and there and there. I would often sit in those galleries, sometimes reading, sometimes just looking out at the river and mountains.”
Ana turned suddenly and did her best to feigned anger. “Bill, I really must tell you that I hate surprises. Do you really wish for me to hate you?”
“Nice try.” I snapped another photo.
“Why do you torture me so? I swear I will never speak to you again.” She found it impossible to keep from smiling.
“You’re like a child!”
“Oh no, I can be much worse.”
I lowered the camera and went to her. “Ana, do you believe in Christmas miracles?”
“Bill,” she protested, “don’t play games.”
“I left some money with Nadja and Hasan. Not much, but it should be enough for something on Christmas.” Tears welled in her eyes. Ana held me tight.
“I love you so much,” she whispered.
“You have come to mean so much to me,” I said. “Leaving you behind, it will soothe my broken heart to know that I made you smile one last time. Just remember me, okay?”
“I will remember you, I promise.” She kissed my neck. Her tears were wet and cool.
We climbed down from the library into the gray blue cityscape. Gunfire echoed as we walked home along the river. A crowd waited for a tram near the Princip Bridge, spread out along the wall should a shell land among them. From Marin Dvor came the fevered wail of an ambulance. A convoy passed an argument in a window. Numbed and shell-shocked soldiers wandered empty streets, as bitter and aimless as the roaming dogs long ago abandoned by destitute owners. A young man missing a leg hobbled along an alley to an uncertain future. Children were being born blocks from the line where men were dying. Young boys and girls learned the thrill and pain of first love, while a Gypsy family lived out of a storefront and cooked over an open flame. A crazy man ran naked down the street. A parent learned of their son’s death, while a couple made love next door. All of this in a world barely one by three miles long. Ana hugged me close and said that she felt like Robinson Crusoe.


CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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20 Years Ago Today I Asked Bosnian Artist Ana Tosic to Marry me. It Almost Didn’t Happen…

At curfew she walked with me to the end of her street. There was fighting on Igman. We watched flashes across the dark face of the mountain. There was worry in Ana’s face.
“You must leave soon, Bill.”
I studied her face, mulling over a thought. “What if I stayed?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“I love you, Ana. What if we were meant to…”
She quickly cut me off. “If we were meant to be together we would have met in Chicago or Paris or anywhere but here.”
I sighed heavily and looked again at the mountain. She was right, of course.
“I talked with a friend the other day,” she said. “He works on the tunnel in Dobrinja. He says that if you can get there he will help you across to Butmir.”
“Ana, I…”
“It is very dangerous, but if you have no other choice.”
The time had come, and I decided that night, as I evaded the police on the way to Hasan’s, that I would leaving the following night. Ana’s friend would be at the tunnel and, with a bit of luck, would help me across. I would go to see her in the afternoon to say goodbye. It would be quick, like tearing off a bandage.
The next morning I returned to the military hospital for the letters Alto and Emira had written for their family on the outside. Snipers were dueling in the plaza. The halls of the hospital were crowded with patients and doctors chased there by the gunfire. Above the frustrated curses of staff, protestations and the moans of the sick and wounded, bullets could be heard slapping against the walls of the building, sounding like clapping hands. I found Emira calming patients, but I might have thought I had rescued her. Grabbing my arm she led me quickly up to Alto’s room.
“Terrible,” she said of the shooting, “much worse than I have seen it in some time.”
The Serbs were putting pressure all around the city, attempting to force the Bosnians to divert troops from the mountain offensive.
“Little boys with dangerous toys,” I remarked.
“You will hate me, but I haven’t finished the letter. I simply have not had time, with all the fighting and new patients. We are overwhelmed, you understand. I don’t think that Alto is finished either. I’m sorry, but if you could return tomorrow.”
“I was leaving the city tonight.”
“One more day, if it is not too much of a problem.”
At least I might have one more day with Ana. “No, it’s no problem.”
“It’s funny,” she smiled. “I didn’t know what to write. Is that crazy? After so long I had a million things to say and to know. I could have written a book, but with all this time passed and only a few small pages, what is most important to say? All I could think to say was ‘I love you’ a thousand times.” Emira shrugged and smiled weakly. “So you’re leaving the city.”
“Soon.”
“You don’t sound very happy?”
“I met a girl.” We paused near Alto’s door. The shooting had stopped and he was on his cot working on the letter.
“A girl? That’s fantastic!” Emira exclaimed. “Tell me her name, really you must.”
“Ana.”
“Your Ana is a lucky girl,” she hugged me. “I hope she knows that.”
“If she won’t marry you,” Alto quipped, “I will!”
Emira swatted at him playfully, admonishing him with a sweet smile. “You’re mad! Now finish your letter so this poor man can go home to America.”
“I’m not finished yet,” he said.
“It’s not supposed to be War and Peace!” Emira remarked.
“Just war,” Alto replied.
Two bullets smacked the wall beside the window chasing us into the hall again. Alto hopped around on one foot having abandoned his crutches with the letter in the room. As more gunfire resounded in the plaza below he thought better of returning for either of them.
“Ah, jebim te…!” he swore.
“Relax,” said Emira. “Bill will return tomorrow.” She looked at me, her eyes hungry for every detail of Ana. “So is this serious with your Ana?”
“It was all a mistake, Emira.”
“Real love is never a mistake.”
“I didn’t plan on this. Really, it was never my intention.”
“Did you think that one day you would just wake up and say, this is the day I will fall in love? When you return tomorrow we will have coffee and we will talk more.”
Later that evening Ana and I went to see her grandmother downtown. Ghostly white clouds drifted silently above the dark city and broken rooftops. I said nothing about leaving, and Ana seemed to be in no mood to confront that eventuality either.
Ana’s grandmother Angela lived in a five-story building near Bashcharshija. There were no lights in the stairwell. Tall windows on each landing allowed starlight and offered a magnificent view of Trebevich, but also made us targets for snipers. Angela was expecting us.
She appeared on the landing at her door beckoning us to hurry. She greeted me warmly and ushered us inside. Despite her age and the hardships of the war, Angela remained a lovely and refined woman. I saw not a small amount of her in Ana. They were both proud and mannered almost to a fault. A wool shawl was thrown around her shoulders, and there were hints of silver in her curly dark hair. By candlelight her skin had the luster of fine alabaster.
The apartment was small but inviting and warm. The window in the tiny front room held a stunning view of Trebevich and the frontline. Despite the fact that the walls of the building were peppered with bulletholes, Angela’s windows had miraculously remained intact. The room was kept like a museum, with a beautiful espresso colored loveseat, and an impressive library of Bosnian and Yugoslav literature kept under lock and key behind bevelled glass doors. Opposite the windows and mountain, and easily the centerpiece to this magnificent place, stood a turn-of-the-century Austrian writing table.
The walls were filled with original oil paintings by some of Yugoslavia’s best artists. Among them were lithographs and several sketches of a nude girl I felt sure were of Angela done many years before. The candlelight warmed the dark wood of exquisite Austrian antiques. In glimpses it was almost as if we had stepped into another time. There were keepsakes from around the world, and posters that hinted at Angela’s career as a Yugoslav film producer for movies like “Tito and Me,” “A Time for Gypsies,” and “When father was Away on Business.”
I could feel her studying me as we sipped hot tea. She seemed to scrutinize every word and gesture, as if to gauge some clue to my motives. Ana seemed to notice as well, and seemed terribly worried over her grandmother’s opinion, much as she was with Cico. Years of sizing up opponents in the cutthroat system of the Yugoslav Communist Party had made her adept at identifying and neutralizing threats. For the moment I was a threat to her granddaughter. Despite that, I found that I both admired and feared Angela. As if sensing this, Ana would reach over now and then to touch my knee and let me know that everything was all right.
Angela produced a small plate of palachinka, jam-filled Bosnian crepes. She delighted in watching as Ana and I devoured the entire plate. It was, quite frankly, the only substantive food either of us had eaten in days. Angela had gone to great expense to make them.
She usually kept a very tight, indeed miserly, reign on her finances, which were dwindling steadily as the war continued. In the late Eighties, following the death of Tito, as the Yugoslav Dinar began to crumble, Angela wisely converted much of her cash to German Marks. She knew that the cash starved government and corrupt officials would plunder the state-controlled banks. If war broke out the Dinar would be worthless.
We stayed only a short time. Angela begged us to visit her again. She rarely had visitors any longer, and the cold and war had aggravated her arthritis so that she almost never left the apartment. Neither of us let on that I would be leaving soon. We could hardly bear the thought ourselves. We hurried past the windows on the stairs as tracers spit from trenches on the mountain. Down on the street Ana held me tight.
“How did I do?” I asked.
“You were great. She really liked you. I knew that she would.”
A soldier was waiting in the war room when we returned to Ana’s. He was tall and handsome, with broad shoulders and neatly trimmed blond hair. He was still in uniform and dirty from being on the line. He paced the room while his girlfriend looked on with a concerned expression. She was equally stunning by appearance, imbued with the grace and elegance of a dancer. Long golden hair was pulled tightly from her small face. Their expressions were severe and tense. Ana knew why they were there. She checked to be sure no one was on the stairs and closed the door tight.
“Bill, this is my friend Damir.”
I held out a hand but he ignored it. “What has Ana told you about the tunnel?”
“Nothing.” I shrank from his girlfriend’s icy stare. Her name was Nina. She and Ana had gone to school together, and had trained at the same dance school.
“Did she tell you that I work on the tunnel?”
“She never mentioned any names.” I looked at Ana. Her expression spoke of the danger and seriousness of all this.
“Damir,” Nina scowled, “this is a big mistake.”
He waved her off and thought for a moment. “Normally I would not do this. There is a reason that foreigners are forbidden from the tunnel. If the Chetniks learned the location the war could be lost.” He sighed heavily. “However, because of my friendship with Ana I will help you, if you can get there.”
“You understand that if Damir is caught he could be shot,” said Nina. “Will you carry that on your conscience?” She glared accusingly at Ana.
“I will be at the tunnel Monday and Wednesday night,” Damir went to the door. Nina joined him there. His eyes met mine, as though second-guessing his decision. “Do not tell anyone of this.”
They left quickly, Ana and I languishing in the heaviness of their departure.
“I’m sorry for Nina,” Ana rubbed my chest. “She comes off like a bitch. It’s just that she worries for him terribly.”
I nodded. “Do you trust him?”
She looked so terribly sad as she nodded. I sighed and checked the time. It was nearly curfew.


CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Revolution and Beer…of the week: Spiteful Brewing’s Double ESB and the meaning of reward

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The sound of a heavy sigh, and me draped over the back of a chair. Before me the nearly smoking hot keys of the keyboard, and those magic words that every writer alternately prays for and dreads-“The End.”

It is the end of this road. The cats and laundry have been neglected. Dishes have piled up in the sink, and the wife kind of, sort of recalls the last time we actually had a substantive conversation. For the last several weeks the predominance of our communication consisted almost entirely of a befuddling series of gestures and waves. But it is done, and after all of that, the late nights and up-before-dawn writing binges, I can rejoice-albeit alone.

No, no, it isn’t like that. The wife didn’t leave me for someone who communicates verbally. She was at work when I finished the Play, “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden,” a humorous swipe at the security state. So I fed the cats, which, as excited as they were for food, gave the place a party atmosphere. As for me, I was saving something special for this moment.

I’d been coveting a bottle of Spiteful’s P.A.C. Forever, Double ESB. I grabbed a couple of stout tulip glasses to focus the aroma a bit and headed over to Brian’s for a taste. We’d both had a tough year, and beer really has made the difference in keeping us both from falling to deeply into those challenges. Beer, good beer, and the community we brought to it, carried perspective. I caught him at home alone, waiting for the family to return. The house was quite, golden late afternoon sunlight bleeding through the blinds in the front room of his red-brick Chicago bungalow.20130803_181337

The beer poured to a cloudy copper color with a bit of an ochre hue. The light cream head was full and airy, settling gently, and lingering upon the glass in an intricate lacing. The aroma was light and nutty with a slight fruity character with notes of grapefruit and cherry. Brian and I raised our glasses together. Radio, TV, nearly a hundred protests this year, a new book and a play, on top of all that has happened this year-so far- and the first taste of Spiteful’s P.A.C. Forever charged through us like a shot of joyously cold electricity. The 7.6% ABV didn’t hurt either!

The nutty character of lightly toasted malts hinted at in the aroma carried over richly in that first taste. It was laced with fruitiness underlying that bordered on the tart side without being disagreeable. Extra Special Bitters, or ESBs are a bit of a misnomer. They are, in fact, characterized by balance. The double ESB, I surmise, referred to an enjoyable hoppy bitterness at the end.

It had come up cool that evening, the sun nearly set behind the two flats across the street. Brian and I finished the last of our beer. The family was just getting home, so I made my departure. The fever and rush of the last several months seemed paused for a moment, the memory of Spiteful’s P.A.C. Forever Double ESB and the peace of the evening returning perspectives to their rightful place. I took a cleansing breath and started down the shadowed block. Sometimes even revolutions need a moment…

Catch WC Turck and Brian Murray only at RevolutionandBeer.com. Watch us every Tuesday at 7:30 p.m., and Wednesdays at 2:30 p.m., on Chicago Cable Channel 19. Please don’t forget to Like us on Facebook.
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ACTIVISTS AND COMMUNITY ORGANIZERS: If you have a cause to champion, please let us know. We proudly stand with you in the important work of strengthening the grassroots support network for the city of Chicago.

BEER! Catch the Beer of The Week review with 900poundgorilla, along with weekly food pairings for our featured beers by Chef AJ Francisco and Simply Healthy Gourmet author Carole Cooper here. Find all of the great beers we review each week at www.glunzbeers.com.

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Detroit bankruptcy: Beyond the Headline or how Capitalism crippled a great American City and the Right will kill it!

You will not find the details, the real story on the Detroit bankruptcy filing unless you are really looking for it amid a great deal of spin. What you will get is the cartoon version, the fluff that really furthers a greater misconception that really shows the Rightwing bias of the media. That is, as we have maintained all along, the Right, as the propaganda front for greedy commercial interests wants to get their hands on the public till, which will dwarf the 2008 financial “crisis” as the biggest crime against the United States in history.

Largest among those misconceptions is a diabolical spin, most particularly today by Limbaugh guest ogre and ardent racist Mark Steyn. He cited that $9billion of Detroit’s outstanding $11billion debt was owed to public workers. Steyn then described the crisis as being their fault. This Canadian-born facilitator to the looting of the nation could hardly be more wrong. There is no causal link here, except in the fraudulent mind of a 1% shill.

What the figures show is that Detroit, a dichotomy of areas of opulently concentrated wealth and near warzone-like poverty, has chronically defaulted on responsibilities and debts to working class people. They have been sacrificed, pushed aside, promised and now betrayed. As with so many companies filing for bankruptcy, the workers suffer most, while the owners and lawyers leave handsomely compensated. This debt represents pay checks, retirement, braces for kids teeth, medical procedures under existing healthcare benefits-true necessities of life.

In March Michigan governor Rick Snyder appointed lawyer Kevyn Orr, a former partner with the Washington-based law firm of Jones Day as emergency manager of Detroit, despite the overwhelming objections of the voters. This from a group who proclaim a dozen Tea Partiers in a mall as “the will of the people!” While at the firm Orr represented Chrysler in their 2009 bankruptcy, billing the company $700 an hour. Chrysler received $4.5 billion in debtor-in-possession financing from the federal government under George Bush. So, who did Kevyn Orr bill exactly at $700 bucks and hour? Chrysler or the US taxpayer? I have a guess? Do you? On Thursday Orr asked a judge for permission to place the city under Chapter 9 bankruptcy protection. Who is going to get paid for this one? What will their connection to Mr. Orr be?

Aside from the fact that the largest municipality in the nation, a once great American city, filed for bankruptcy under a Republican, there are far greater issues here that spell real danger for our nation. While the Occupy Movement has all but faded away into disparate and ineffectual small grounds and the Tea Party tools are being jettisoned now that their usefulness to their corporate and ideological inventors are through with them, this marks a giant leap forward in the planned privatization of public sector finances and assets, moving all of those things into private control, and with it your tax dollars.

This is a looting of the economy. The withering here began with international trade agreements allowing corporations to abandon American workers, and through full support and approval of the government, relocate to undercut American workers. There are no mechanisms by all of these “very smart” people to hold companies accountable, taxing them for jettisoning domestic factories for slave foreign labor. This is the outcome of that planet-sized loophole.

Greedy, unrestrained capitalism brought Detroit to its knees and crippled it, just as it is doing around the nation It was not the unions. So now they have appointed a robber baron to oversee the process and kill it off once and for good. Who will represent Detroit in that, some old friend of Orr’s, Jones Day, and what will they charge the taxpayers? Just asking a question. Rest assured, and I saw it first hand during the United Airlines bankruptcy in 2002, people will get paid a great deal of money from this, and the workers; the cops, firemen, street cleaners and teachers will get nothing by screwed.

This is not an isolated issue about a struggling city. This was engineered and will lead to privatization of public works, business and assets. the strategy to accomplish that is in degrading the government to a point in which it inevitably fails and then sell it off. Always the endgame, like with the banks and Wall Street in 2008 was to get to the purse strings of America’s tax base-the American worker. It feeds their greed and strengthens their control over the government and favorable legislation.

And the blinding messaging from the Right’s media monopoly continues apace. the anti-union FOX News is but one example, coming out in loud and fully support of former Jones Day partner Kevin Orr’s actions greed czar of Detroit. Interesting that FOX pundit Megyn Kelly once worked at Jones Day, but I’m sure that is just a coincidence.
Catch WC Turck and Brian Murray only at RevolutionandBeer.com. Watch us every Tuesday at 7:30 p.m., and Wednesdays at 2:30 p.m., on Chicago Cable Channel 19. Please don’t forget to Like us on Facebook.
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ACTIVISTS AND COMMUNITY ORGANIZERS: If you have a cause to champion, please let us know. We proudly stand with you in the important work of strengthening the grassroots support network for the city of Chicago.

BEER! Catch the Beer of The Week review with 900poundgorilla, along with weekly food pairings for our featured beers by Chef AJ Francisco and Simply Healthy Gourmet author Carole Cooper here. Find all of the great beers we review each week at www.glunzbeers.com.

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Revolution and Beer…of the Week Vive la French Aramis IPA de New Belgium Brewing!

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So, Saturday is Bastille Day, and this past week has felt very Revolutionary for us here at Revolution and Beer. A protest against a tax dodging company, a trip to Washington DC just for starters. We’re working hard on two books and gearing up for the second season of our television show here in Chicago. It seems altogether fitting that it should culminate with Bastille Day. It brought to mind my first, unpublished, novel, with a character who believes that all human history and future can be described or predicted using the French Revolution as a template. I thought of beer.20130711_183915

Just out this month is a beer by the always consistently good New Belgium Brewery out of Fort Collins Colorado, one of my favorite small towns. I have some keen memories camping in the Rockies along the Poudre River, but back to the beer, revolution and Bastille Day.

6.7%Alcohol By Volume, ABV, this modestly priced India Pale Ale is really anything other than modest. It poured into a pint glass with a hearty ½ inch snow white head with a beautiful opaque Baltic amber color. Quickly I discovered a rich floral aroma with just a hint of spice and warmed hops. I let that settle in the glass a moment, awaiting my perfect food pairing choice to arrive, which I will get to in a moment.

Interesting that with all that occurred this past week that it should come to be punctuated so perfectly by Bastille Day. The single thread running through all of the events the past week were the power of peaceful protest, which brought to mind some brilliantly appropriate quotes by Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre, or more simply, Robespierre. He opposed the fates that ultimately were bestowed upon the necks of the royal family, opposed an unnecessary war against Austria and believed that violence was not the way to spread the values and ideals of the revolution.

Tout institution qui ne suppose pas le peuple bon et le magistrat corruptible est vicieuse!” Which translates to “Any institution that does not suppose the people good, and the magistrate corruptible, is evil!”

a favorite image of Robespierre

a favorite image of Robespierre

So it was this that I was thinking of as I took the first sip of French Aramis IPA, the summer offering from New Belgium. That first malty impression was rounded out with a subtle orange sweetness, It followed nicely by a lingering hoppiness, which, after sampling several fruit-infused beers this week was a welcome return to tradition.

I really wanted to showcase this beer with something befitting the day as well as the beer. It must be obvious at this point that the perfect food to pair with an IPA with a that hint of orange, on the eve of the anniversary of the French Revolution would absolutely be Thai food! What else? French food? Zut Alors!
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The place we preferred was a little family place in the neighborhood, called Cilantro, http://cilantrothaikitchen.com/, with simple and understated dishes. I chose a basil dish with duck and a light chili sauce with a medium spice. Stir fried with garlic, green beans and red peppers until the basil leaves held the slightest crispiness and the garlic had cooked into the sauce with juices from the duck. The herbalness of the basil, softened by the garlic nicely complimented the hops. The spice of the sauce was balanced sublimely by the sweetness of that hint of orange. Vive la revolution! La vous allez! Bonne fête de la Bastille!
Catch WC Turck and Brian Murray only at RevolutionandBeer.com. Watch us every Tuesday at 7:30 p.m., and Wednesdays at 2:30 p.m., on Chicago Cable Channel 19. Please don’t forget to Like us on Facebook.
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ACTIVISTS AND COMMUNITY ORGANIZERS: If you have a cause to champion, please let us know. We proudly stand with you in the important work of strengthening the grassroots support network for the city of Chicago.

BEER! Catch the Beer of The Week review with 900poundgorilla, along with weekly food pairings for our featured beers by Chef AJ Francisco and Simply Healthy Gourmet author Carole Cooper here. Find all of the great beers we review each week at www.glunzbeers.com.

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Siding with the opposition? The arrest of Adam Kokesh and the government’s extreme overreach(Caution Explicit Language)

I’ll start with reports of what happened the night before last in Herndon, Virginia. With light military-style vehicles, helicopters and dozens of police and Federal SWAT-team members, the home of Adam Kokesh, 31, was raided. The door was forcibly opened and flash-bang grenades were used to frighten and subdue a number of young men, including Kokesh who live in the house. The items of a safe, weapons, media, cellphones and other personal items were seized. After 4-5 hours, in which those in the house described as volatile with overly aggressive authorities, Kokesh was arrested. The others were released. Kokesh, and others who live at the residence, it should be said, operate a broadcast studio in the house.

Police raid Kokesh's house and studio

Police raid Kokesh’s house and studio

Kokesh, who refused to leave his cell for the initial arraignment was brought into a second arraignment in a wheelchair Thursday. Kokesh, according to court documents was arrested for allegedly possessing hallucinogenic mushrooms, however, the police were actually searching for a shotgun used by Kokesh in a July 4th video appearing to have been shot on the national mall in downtown Washington DC. Guns are illegal in the city.

Okay, so that is the background, and the posts on Kokesh’s site reflect shock and dismay by the so-called brutality of the police. They invoke the words storm troopers and more. We have no argument with those descriptions. Revolution and Beer is very much on record against the militarism of contemporary civilian police. The armored vehicles proliferating across America for police were not something that was warranted but rather invented in the fear and paranoia employed from the patriot act supported by too many Americans after the September 11th attacks. More and more acts of brutality are documented and lead to an alarming conclusion that police are now becoming more tools for the protection of privilege and perpetuation of power to which government officials are perversely beholden.

The police have proved themselves on the side of statutes and edicts which stand in absolute and clear contrast and violation to the constitution. Last week on the memorial bridge in Washington, a Kokesh supporter, Matt Biechler protested a security search at a police CHECKPOINT, citing the 4th amendment. The officer’s simple refrain was that it was for security reasons http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJ8_YCXyIRs. In that case a general concern was enough for authorities to justify the erasure of a constitutional right. The amendment, in part, reads:

“The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, SHALL NOT BE VIOLATED…”

So, despite all of those givens, what did Kokesh think would happen when he loaded that weapon in Washington while calling for the end of the government by openly describing himself as leader of a violent uprising?

Likely they view him as a militia leader of some sort, and a seasoned combat veteran with weapons in his home. I’m guessing it was a bit too much to expect a couple a polite plain clothes types would knock and ask Adam for a polite chat on the porch, or perhaps over a beer down at the corner tap. Seriously? These guys were going to come in prepared for war, and to my criticism of Mr. Kokesh’s strategy, he’s not cutting a very sympathetic character in the mainstream media, or even with the average citizen. He can’t compete with the predictable government propaganda that justifies hardcore tactics when he wields a weapon. Want to beat the government and media at their game, and have the whole planet on your side, organize A MILLION KITTEN OR PUPPY MARCH, and when some cop stomps, kicks or Tasers a fluffy white kitten or bleary-eyed pup, they’re finished.

kokesh-youtube-1Revolution and Beer believes that the police were far too aggressive and overreaching to storm the house and arrest Kokesh. He should not have been arrested. Believe it or not there is a fair amount of agreement between us and Kokesh, we differ only in tactics and rhetoric.

We have long maintained that his 23 second video taken before dawn on an empty street on a holiday was little more than a college drinking prank rather than a protest http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-sAGGoPidEY. But I can tell you, waiting vainly that morning with a number of Kokesh supporters, including Mr. Biechler for Kokesh to arrive, they had that bridge buttoned up tighter than the boarder crossing into North Korea. These people now have to justify their expenditures, just like the Chicago Police for NATO, the FBI with the Cleveland activists, and the federal authorities with Barrett Brown, Bradley Manning and Jeremy Hammond. Adam just handed them that justification on a beautiful plate with his video.

There is a Free Adam cite, that interested parties can find here http://freeadamkokesh.com/. There is also a Facebook page for the event as well https://www.facebook.com/events/269236523215230/.

IMG_0493Kokesh has drawn the vengefulness of a very powerful government, one that has become separate from the people, and one which we must take control of. We need to extinguish the cancerous influence of money to control our public officials. We need uncorrupted people who will begin to dismantle the military-police state that has arisen, and return our police forces to restrained but supported fellow citizens that do indeed “Serve and Protect.”

Rather than dismantle the federal government, as Kokesh advocates, dis-elect every single politician, and elect true representatives of the people, rather than the corpora-war pimps we currently have. But make no mistake, this goes all the way down to the state and local level as well. THE SHIT DOESN’T RESIDE AT THE TOP, IT COVERS EVERYTHING at this point. In the interim, peacefully but resolutely shame these people, at their church, grocery storm, gas station. Let them know your discord with their anti-Americanism. If you really want to help Adam, the nation and the world that is the place to start.

And lastly, let me know when and where on that MILLION PUPPY/KITTEN MARCH, and I’m there!

Catch WC Turck and Brian Murray only at RevolutionandBeer.com. Watch us every Tuesday at 7:30 p.m., and Wednesdays at 2:30 p.m., on Chicago Cable Channel 19. Please don’t forget to Like us on Facebook

ACTIVISTS AND COMMUNITY ORGANIZERS: If you have a cause to champion, please let us know. We proudly stand with you in the important work of strengthening the grassroots support network for the city of Chicago.

BEER! Catch the Beer of The Week review with 900poundgorilla, along with weekly food pairings for our featured beers by Chef AJ Francisco and Simply Healthy Gourmet author Carole Cooper here. Find all of the great beers we review each week at www.glunzbeers.com.

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