312(a)(7) or Siberia.
Standing lookout for Public Office
Aboard the S.S. F.C.C. Treblinka

Michael Stephen Levinson

Once upon a time I was an old fashioned candidate for president. Today, like the seaborn refugee, Elian in an inner tube, tacking along on the sea of internet, I'm a viable, unlisted street corner speck.

I was one of those candidates for U.S. president, too, in the '96 election. Though I was on Charles Osgood's, Sunday Morning, clipped in New Hampshire, campaigning there, at a gas pump; and from that, sort of covered by ABC News, and mentioned by name in their primary night coverage by esteemed anchor, Peter Jennings, I was mostly ignored by the press.

A month before the primary, a lady from CBS reached me at my old home in Buffalo, N.Y. She wanted to know why I wasn't up in New Hampshire, campaigning for president. I told her about my prized NeXT color workstation with the 21 inch monitor that was simply too heavy for me to drag around on the campaign trail; and that I would be in New Hampshire later that week for a two hour call-in radio show in Nashua.

"Radio," Kate Stiasni scoffed, we are CBS television. We want to interview you for Charles Osgood's Sunday Morning. What are your other campaign activities in New Hampshire? What do you do for campaigning when you aren't on the radio?"

I said, "I go to busy gas stations and hang out near the pumps," which I hadn't actually, but planned for a potential band of campaign volunteers.

"Then when a likely voter pulls up I walk over and say, 'Hi. I'm Michael Levinson. I'm a candidate for president. The president of United States sits on a horse, and all the rest of us stand in the dust, but I am only a candidate so why don't you go inside and get yourself a coffee while I water your horse. How many gallons do you want?"

She chuckled. I told her how I'd met and talked to Walter Cronkite years before, an experience she hadn't; and how later, Cronkite introduced me to David Brinkley. I peppered her with my creative approaches to all of the '96 campaign's hot button soon-to-be-forgotton issues.

I lightly suggested dinner at her hotel, with her crew on chaperonage, the night before the shoot. But she was intimidated by that, and we arranged instead to meet early friday morning, in Concord, the day after my radio appearance in Nashua.

The CBS set up by the gas pumps was overly good. CBS's solid ten minutes of questions and answers had CBS's Bill Geist set back on his heels, blurting about my program for ending the welfare trap: "It's too good. It makes too much sense - they'll never let you do that," ending with a walk-away-shot as I announced Muhammed Ali my first choice for Vice President, because Ali is a holy man, world renowned, loved by all, and the best guy for the job.

There was more, besides, a CBS campaign encore back at the motel, for a cameo shot of my mother, with Geist's contract camera crew at the end asking me outright for White House jobs, to be the camera guys for, "Live At the White House," my intended nightly ninety minutes of after dinner united family talk show.

CBS's high octane tape is alive in their archives, as out-takes, cut from view. CBS instead gave its viewing public me pumping $5 worth of regular for a potential vote.

ABC News was much better. They used me for their primary night lead into a hastily put together segment on the underfunded, therefore, "candidates you never heard of," for president.

ABC's tightly pre-scripted "Lev" interview, filmed first, came out first in their lot, though closer to a half minute snip than my own self-imagined spontaneous hour at least of immaculate speech, with every line a delicate sensible rhyme, to bring me and my inspired candidacy immediate Warholwellian world wide fame.

I proclaimed myself New Hampshire's primary winner at 7:30 in the morning, that for ABC's Evening News product, because I was going to total the most votes for the least amount of dollars spent, which meant to me I could've won, which in fact I did.

Much later, into the night, after the polls had opened and closed, while gorging myself on assorted melons, chicken fingers, cheeses, and rare roast beef at Steve Forbes' primary bash, everything there top shelf, as though right off Forbes' own dinner table, I almost met Joan Rivers.

A friend of Forbes, not Bill's, the comedienne was there, too, campaigning for Forbes on primary night, and she gave a classy warm up speech before Forbes appeared to rally his rambunctious, faithful crowd.

Later on, as Joan was leaving the room, meandering at the ballroom door, our eyes met. She stopped, pointed her hand at me like a gun and shouted, "you," and then, with her thumb up, over the din, "You were great."

That was a winning chit. Sew a memo-repeatable line, on Channel 9's evening news, and you can memo re bank your campaign lurches in the hole-darned flinty state because Channel 9 is the only statewide network affiliate there.

As I was leaving Concord, the next day, crossing the street to my car, a lady driving by smiled in recognition. So I reaped my money's worth of fame on ABC.

But this final time out, out on the hustings, when I first began to write this dream life tale of Jacklegs down, I thought it could easily take "a cool million" old fashioned John D. dollars in advance, going in, without squander, to win New Hampshire's retail primary.

God knows, I began negotiating my New Hampshire reappearance for this current election cycle a whole year in advance, and talked at length about it with New Hampshire's Secretary of State, William Gardner.

My plan called for Secretary Gardner to have C-Span's cameras in his office on Ground Hog Day for presidential candidates, that first Monday morning in the fall when all the presidential hopefuls can appear at the State Capitol to officially declare their candidacies.

I planned on getting there very early in the morning, and parking myself at the Secretary's door, so I'd be first in line to cough up their $1000 filing fee. Secretary Gardner wanted a minor candidate to be first up at bat, historical human interest and all of that, and he said that he didn't mind my finally getting a bigger bang for my buck, delivering a major speech in his office.

What the heck, I'd been coughing up the granite state's thousand dollar filing fee since '88, and besides, an unmitigated speech by an unknown candidate would be great publicity for "live free or die" New Hampshire, a reason Gardner could throw at the other states' Secretaries for leaving New Hampshire first state up in the primary process.

Not that Secretary Gardner supports my platform of innovative solutions, he's an elected hack, beholden to the poli-party forces there, but on the phone, Gardner was agreeable to giving me an opportunity to state my case and slowly show and tell my plan for world peace and food chain harmony, on C-Span, protected from interruption in his office.

I thought my idea fit with his own personal image of the unknown candidate speaking out in New Hampshire and making a diff rinse in our politics, as I first attempted to do just that, back in '88, on New Hampshire Public Television, where I established our affirmative First Amendment right to request access for political speech and get it. That was then.

"This is the promised land. / That was then. / This is now. / Each land show its promise. / Pow wow to the pea pull. / Up with the folks." The Book ov Lev It A Kiss c.1971

What a scenario! With the secretary's doors thrown open, and C-Span's unblinking eye, on, balanced by network affiliated local Tv, Swedish Tv, local reporters, and live Canadian television, I was going to deliver, upon that state house declaration, at least 90 minutes of political speech, focused on specific nuts & bolts solutions to our prob limbs, illustrating my common sense platform with anecdotes, spontaneous lyrics and giant mull tie ling well metaphors, in a natch a rill weave, protected from interruption by Secretary Gardner nearby, as I stood at the original 18th century table where all the candidates sign their declarations, in the event they bother to show up.

That was my initial poli-poetic off-street theater plan.

By 10:00 am., all the anointed candidates would've been there, too, but out in the hall, grousing about Gardner's door, their entourage of sycophants and press, clustered in tow, waiting for their own pre-planned spontaneous C-Span freebe, their mouths agape at my exercise; and I would have up staged that whole gaggle of candidates, on live cable television, with words, world orders, and word hors d'oeuvres, a new word order.

For me, our presidency is my own stepping stone for changing the course of human history on the good ship mother earth, that with an inspired work of art, a book of living prophesy written down in design, to perform live on world wide television for all the world's peoples to sea, listen to and be a part of all at once. My candidacy is distinguished from the rest, who mostly see the presidency as an end in and of itself.

I imagined the scene outside the secretary's door, with all the green-groomed presidential wannabees gathered, their eyes locked together on a live Tv monitor.

Stepping into that packed corridor after my speech, with all those cameras whirring, I'd have nailed candidate Bradley on the spot, "Bill, you can't win because the referee is dirty demo money entrenched beneath the radar screen! I need you to be my Secretary of State and go to the hoop for world peace because I have the world plan, man, I have the pro gram !" Or should I get in touch with Gary Hart?

"G'morning Senator McCain, I was in Nam, too. You keep telling us America doesn't owe you anything. I agree. You owe us. I read it on the internet: You didn't get shot down. You was flyin' cart wheels, los' control, and dump't our property. That's negligence, Senator and you owe us. I might have to attach your check," laughing, followed by an all around shout at all the crowding camera crews, "Everyone has to turn their sound off. C'mon. Every buddy turn your recorders off. For national security's sake I really need you to cut your sound. Now."

Which they wouldn't have.

And then, "Senator McCain, after the election, when it's all said and done, we have to take out Saddam. We don't have any choice. I have a fail safe military plan for nailing Saddam, which I will explain to you in private, besides a secret weapon. Forget the senate. You only live once. I need you to be our Secretary of Defense, where you can do some good."

"Ok, turn yer sound back on, guys, I love Saddam. You should all pray for his good health. Mark my words about Saddam! When he goes to the doctor and finds out his liver is only good for another six months, he's going to try and take out everyone he thinks he owes; you saw it at the movies - he could make an attempt to take out half of our east coast with him; and we can't wait for that."

Then, as I imagined, to McCaine. "So yer onna book tour, Senator, and riding the wave, but by yourself you don't have a snow ball's chance in hell to snatch the republican nomination."

"I need you to come in second behind me, here in New Hampshire, to trample the Bushes. Here is your winning sound bite, tailor made for your camp-crusade:

"When governor Bush was raising money in Austin, and only contemplating a run to be our president, he ordered his state police to remove some protestors marching back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the state house."

"This is such a telling story, senator. He told the troopers he wanted the protesting citizens shoed off the walk because it didn't look good for them to be there as long as he, the governor, was going to run for president. Maybe they were on the side walk by the governor's mansion "

"How's that for constitutional rights, Senator? Here's yer knockout punch:

"I fought in a war, like so many others before, like Senator Dole, to protect your constitutional rights to assemble and protest. That's why we fought. Governor Bush is a decent man, but he truly doesn't understand that whoever takes our oath of office as president, being president just isn't about bringing honor to our oval office. The president's honor and duty is to defend our constitution, and protect all of our people's rights, not to govern over and above the citizenry, according to what looks good."

"Repeat that over and over again, here in New Hampshire and you will get all the hard core republican votes in every open primary, for a solid second place behind the poet. As it stands, without me here, when the push-poll so-called honorable Bushes come to shove, after New Hampshire, yer gunna get Bushwhacked."

"Senator, I've been there with these people, I'm Maureen Dowd's 'jacklegs, jumping up' that president Bush personally suppressed from his Oval Office in '92, his payback for my having criticized him during my New Hampshire Public Television half hour speech, in '88, where I stated plain that King George, the elder, regularly takes the Lord's name in vain, and that we, the people cannot afford to have someone who casually blasphemes God holding our highest office."

"They hate me. I infuriate them. The Bush family doesn't know what fairness is. The old lady despises me, and said as much, in a Parade Magazine interview, a few years down the road after '88."

"Despise," is mommy Bar's choice of words, senator. That's the word old lady Bush used in her Parade Mag interview, when the reporter asked how she responds, as first lady, when she meets someone who she doesn't like. Barbara Bush answered thus, "When I meet someone I despise, I remain stone silent."

"On primary day in Derry, in '88, she appeared in a fur coat, I think a mink, at the school where the ballots are cast, only a few minutes after Liddy Dole left the site. It was a bitter cold day, but she stood for a while on the walkway, the loyal wife, urging the voters to vote for her George."

"Everyone with a sign was standing around in their top coats, freezing, except me. I was coatless, but from the skin on out, wearing a full set of long underwear, double socks, insulated mountain shoes, an oxford cloth shirt, power tie, all wool sweater and Norman Hilton sports jacket, topped with a Siberian styled fur hat - Chinese red fox - warm as toast."

"When I spotted old lady Bush, standing all alone, during a voter's lull, I walked over and introduced myself. I said I was a candidate for president, too, and then I said, "Would you give your husband a message for me? Tell him I said, 'give Lev a chance.' "

"But she wouldn't even answer. Not a word. She just stood there, stone silent, with a tight almost smirk on her lips. At that I walked away, but I thought to myself, how weird - not a word."

"The first lady knew exactly who I was. Both her and her husband saw my speech. The voters mostly didn't, because the PBS station listed Motor Week in my time slot, instead of Michael Stephen Levinson, candidate; but the Bushs and Doles, and all their politicos were advance advised."

"What a tabloid scoop in '88: candidate for president gives the only single handed live televised speech in the whole campaign, but for the oil change crowd and channel surfers only. Every New Hampshire newspaper also managed not to list my speech in their daily program guides. Gee, Freedom of the Press and all of that."

"Anyway, on primary day, a few minutes before, when I saw Liddy Dole near the door to the school, hailing voters, I walked over to her, too, but before I could introduce myself, the Senator's wife interjected, "I know who you are," and abruptly turned away to pitch a vote for Bob."

"Despise, Senator McCaine, lest I forget, "despise," does characterize that nazi attitude toward the Jews they'd enslaved for genocide, the attitudes of all those german generals educating Oscar Schindler as to why he should not have kissed the young Jewess who brought him a cake for his birthday."

"I like Liddy Dole. With her no nonsense style, she could easily fit in my cabinet, to take down an agency or two; and Bob for sure in my kitchen cabinet. Bob Dole was my 2nd choice for V.P., in '96, after Muhammed Ali. This time, after Ali, my 2nd choice is Jesse Ventura for Vice President."

"Alone, I might not be able to stop them, I haven't yet, but together we can. I've got a plan for that, too regardless how the primarys turn. Did you catch my plan for campaign finance reform on television just now?"

"Senator McCain, you can make this constitutional campaign finance reform happen right in your commerce committee, my plan to grant the simple priveledge of nationwide bulk email to presidential candidates, enabling all our candidates for all our public offices to freely reach out for their own constituencies and then run for free. This one clean measure nearly dissolves soft money as a factor in political campaigns. Call it progressive reform."

Oh, it would've been a heavy monday morning for candidates in New Hampshire. Groundhog Day for presidential candidates.

I had genuine offers planned, for tendering on live TV, for each and every one of the party anointed candidates in New Hampshire, whoever C-Span's freebe cameras lured; and everything would have been furthermore rehearsed live for a hundred reporters, the night before in the Center of New Hampshire Hotel's lounge.

I was negotiating every day with an independent film crew to video everything, to grab shots of the major wannabees grumbling in the hall during my speech, and more. What with my planned dress rehearsal Sunday night, masked as spontaneous entertainment, and filmed in the bar, for all the billeted reporters there, I'd have created enough raw footage, from both events, for an instant Tv documentary, and wrapped this year's presidential election, by noon.

That was my plan. Ahh, the best laid plans.....

I called Gardner twice a week, leading up, to inquire about the C-Span commitment, so I could prepare my own press release. I'd already booked my flight that summer, at Gardner's behest. Secretary Gardner said, "Do it right away, today, use the internet for a better price. Book a flight to Boston. Someone will be there to pick you up at the airport."

Schmuck that I am, I listened to him.

I also booked a room, on his suggestion, at The Center of New Hampshire Hotel. Gardner said it was the main oasis for all out-of-state press elite, so I committed myself to an additional $600 plus, imagining I'd have to pack a dozen cans of tuna for the trip, and smuggle in a loaf of bread or two, to secretly eat my way through the weekend.

When it sounded like he was going through with my request, to contact his friend, Steven Scully, from C-Span, and book C-Span in for the historic first day, I told him I planned on contacting Jesse Ventura, to negotiate Jesse holding a press conference, the friday before presidential Ground Hog Day, announcing only that he, Ventura, was going to be in New Hampshire on the first Monday, leaving out that his appearance there was only to give me a hand, as my reel speech bodyguard.

The secretary nearly fell off his chair when I trusted him with that - a kin to the endangered right whale, I trust every buddy - and Gardner blurted back, "Every camera in the world will be here." Secretary Gardner sounded genuinely scared, and starting to sweat.

In another call, Gardner reiterated that he wasn't putting off my instigated C-Span request, and he wasn't against doing this for me, and I kept saying, "Bill, It's not for me, you are doing something for the First Amendment, and for the State of New Hampshire, not for me. It's for the American people."

But as the day approached, he kept hedging. Gardner kept repeating that C-Span only required three or four day's notice to be there. I could smell he'd wimped out on me. C-Span wouldn't be there, with or without a C-Span bus, on three day's notice, and absent C-Span's unblinking eye, going to New Hampshire was a waste.

I suffered financial penalty, too, when the day before my flight I cancelled the airline booking, that off set by honorable mention on the front page of The Concord Monitor, Concord's noose paper of wreck urd. Yep, the day after presidential's Gound Hog Day, a front page line on New Hampshire's first day primary news beat, as presidential no show.

I should have admitted it, alone and out loud to myself, what I knew all along in my bones: Secretary Gardner is a wimp, and he wouldn't make a move without first consulting, and then getting pre-approval from his mentor, the retired republican Governor, Hugh Gregg.

When I first broached my plan to Secretary Gardner, he said he wanted to talk to Hugh Gregg about it, first, because "Hugh knows the C-Span people, too," and Gardner suggested I call the old man retired governor, which I did.

Hugh Gregg wrote me up in his '96 book about the New Hampshire candidates. For his book, he interviewed me at length, and I was featured as a presidential player in his souvenir deck of candidate playing cards which old man Gregg produces every four years.

I'm one of the players in his current New Hampshire election deck, too, so this year's deck of souvenir candidate cards, including your humble "no show" is a real souvenir collector's item.

I invited the former governor to be my honorary campaign manager, pointing out that he could easily rope enough members of the legislature into having house parties for me, a different house every night, so I'd have a couch to sleep on for the whole campaign, and I could retail all around the whole state, going from place to place, with media tagging along.

But the old man governor declined my offer and said he couldn't do that without first giving up his position on the State Election Board, which he wasn't going to do.

Instead, retired governor Hugh Gregg, Bush operative, and major behind the scenes player in New Hampshire's gritty politics, lunched with his democrat party protege, Secretary Gardner, and read Billy Gardner the riot act.

Gardner was told, in no uncertain paraphrase, "You are unopposed for re election every four years, with republican party support. If you get C-Span here all morning on the first day, for Levinson to make his speech, you will be out."

So my run for office is exclusively an internet campaign, and since December's sheet rocked speech, my best laid plan mouse trapped, I've been hibernating, and building my presidential world wide web domain.

The ducats are out there for run-around campaigning, to be sure, along with an interested electorate, but I believe there is more interest on the internet nationwide, where audio and full motion video are beginning to flourish, and that makes New Hampshire's so-called retail approach to presidential campaigns, passe.

Today, with internet, candidates can retail freely one-on-one with every buddy every day, from all around the country, and convert that savings on unspent fossil fuels into bandwidth energy. I like that better.

Political Speech, in America, is our highest, most protected form of speech, higher than True Verse, which is our highest form of art, that God given, stemming from the human heart.

Political Speech, in America, is higher yet than art, and more protected. But out on the political trail, in our slush fed shrill campaigns, the viewing of any Political Speech is governed by privately, pre-determined news formats, and in that time frame, a two minute news content of a straight up speech on the broadcast evening noose constitutes a mini-epic.

Out on the trail, funded candidates are surrounded by secret service, and personally protected at phenomenal tax payer cost. The candidates' rights to give speeches are constitutionally protected, too, that guarantee, air tight. But the political speech itself is naked, unprotected, and judged good only for a ten second view by news producers, "new directions," "nude erections," and all of that.

Well, we are obligated to protect mass media Political Speech, and we are entitled to a better, more cost effective way for truly unmitigated Political Speech on Tv, a cleaner campaign avenue, but our political soap-suds trailer comes with one big First Amendment hitch: every citizen legally qualified to run for public office, who runs, is also legally entitled to give mass media speeches.

I, for one could speak about fbicia, the enema within. I could publicly question - indeed, show the proof - why and how our Tory government has 70,000 plus Americans in the field, getting directly deposited Stazzi like stipends, these domestic worms, out on the job in America, their never ending task, profiling the whole country, along with all their secretive job justifying false witness given in the mix.

I could certainly show how the guv has someone in every newsroom, to catch in-coming Casalaro styled copy, and more. How annoying! Ok, I won't. Please, don't shoot, or shoot me up with drugs to stage a suicide, as you did to free lance journalist, Danny Casalaro, a few years back. I'm the man who brings world peace, beginning with a peaceful night world wide, so I don't take sides and truely love the bad guys.

Of all the statutes crafted by the Congress since our constitution was ratified, the one statute with farthest reach is Section 312(a)(7) telecommunications law. This statute was created, by the Congress, in 1970, as the Congressional Record clearly shows, to protect Political Speech!

In this, the broadcaster's franchise is on the line. "The commission may (a) revoke a station's license for (7) the willful and repeated failure to allow reasonable access for a candidate to make a speech on behalf of his candidacy."

In our whole nation's history, this is our most telling 20th century statute, because 47 U.S.C. Section 312(a)(7) is the electronic extension of our most cherished First Amendment Right, Freedom of Speech, into every American living room, except in its present form, the statute clearly fails its constitutional muster, and Political Speech is innocently raped.

On this access law, with the broadcaster's franchise at stake, is hinged all those slip shod, smoky politishinz' slug-fomercials, designed regardless, as we all saw this year, in South Carolina's repo primary, to herd the coached potatoes, lumped into a voting booth.

At first glance, this unconstitutional statute could have easily been crafted by James Madison, James Monroe, or Thomas Jefferson. But on its face, and in formal practice, Section 312(a)(7) clearly violates all our basic constitutional rights!

This is Congress' fault, though certainly not their intent, or will, for upon passage of 312(a)(7), Congress handed over its mass media First Amendment statute to the FCC, and charged that government created agency to independently administer the law, with Public Notice of Rule making, and other promulgations, like administrative rulings upon request, and, though fatal for their modus operandi, also to rule on those complaints against a broadcaster by candidates for federal office, the required remedy before the candidates are entitled to redress of their grievance in a Federal Court.

Thus, were our affirmative broadcast rights, a First Amendment guarantee, bureaucracy codified.

The First Amendment's most telling, most important electronic extension, this prime time broadcast Amendment that equally guarantees all of our citizen candidates' rights to plow that mass-a-chewable media avenue into the constituents' own home castles, where all the media massive battles for votes are fought and won; this First of our most cherished Bill of Rights, whose defence, recollect, prompted Senator Dole and many others in and out of fox holes years ago, our First Amendment, our Constitution's beginning-breath, was slipped into the slimy hive tentacles of a shod government agency. Not constitutional. Not. Congress shall make no laws. . .

This government agency, by virtue of its codified bric-a-brac, has Bureau jurisdiction over the First Amendment, which on its face violates our constitution. In its present form, this First Amendment broadcast law cannot be left standing.

The agency's over site juris also includes a sitting president's complaints, oh! that poor aggrieved sitting-president-complainant candidate who further gets to choose the majority of his or her sitting FCC commissioners, while he, the president sits in office. Nahht kosher, folks. Not kosher by a long shot.

Consider Perot. For whatever their politic value, besides Ross Perot's constitutional right to have given them, each and every one of Ross Perot's original TV Speeches, back in '92, could have been given for free, on PBS, which is under the same 312(a)(7) statute as the commercial networks! Obviously, the pecuniarius Perot didn't know about that. He delegated his First Amendment broadcast rights to underlings instead, not bothering to read the law himself.

Regardless, later in his campaign, when the major networks refused to sell Perot the reasonable blocks of time he'd sought, the networks knowingly violated our access law, and trashed the clearest teaching of our highest court, that culminating Carter-Mondale benchmark, CBS, INC. v. F.C.C., 1981, decided for the Court by then Chief of all Coats, Chief Justice Warren Berger, in which the very same networks were together on the docket, lined up at the bench.

Had Berger been alive he would not have sat silent! Compelled, he more than likely would've privately contacted Perot, a man he knew and dined with, for in this most famously intrusive of all the Berger decisions Rhenquist dissed, Chief Justice Berger, ruling for the court, teaches our 312(a)(7) First Amendment access law is an affirmative right! Period.

Speculations by broadcasters were out, the necessity for timeliness of proceedings before the Agency, to avoid unconstitutionality, was clearly stated, and in one deciding paragraph, Justice Berger rounds up all those suspected speculative culprits of constitutional trench, and rules that all the old, tired reasons for refusing access to a candidate were insufficient!

Onward political speech! There always seemed to me a lost comma, or missing something there, relative to potential requests for access under Section 315, the so-called e quill time law.

Ironic, that in every erstwhile e quill time complaint filed since CBS, INC. v. F.C.C., in 1981, all the talk show "appearances" by candidates have been advance-ruled 315 exempt by FCC, without their ruling, case by case, on the appearing "use" facts, a radical, quietly speculative departure from Fairness rulings past!

The FCC's unwritten 315 policy, post CBS, Inc. v. F.C.C., was slippery indeed, for the 315 law destroyed humorist Pat Paulson's television career in the 70's, that, sad to say, years before our techno-breakthroughs eliminated bandwidth scarcity, the original federali reason for creating this regulatory commission in the first place.

Of course this non-enforcement of e quill time by FCC cuts both ways. Every Tv appearance by candidates today, on every possible Tv show, is 315 exempt from e quill time requests, so every Tv producer, regardless of program format, can schedule news e-vented "appearances" by any candidates, or would-be candidates, as often as they like.

In today's 200 channel light, the dimmest of wits can see that a candidate's delivering of an actual 312(a)(7) protected, spontaneous eyeball to eyeball televised Political Speech is a genuine news event, too, and therefore, exempt from 315 counter requests.

Regurgitating those old 315 speculations by the self-imagined request-harried, intruded-on broadcasters, as they did with Perot, truely splays political darkness, and violates the most careful teachings of our highest court.

But Ross Perot was subtly led away from defending our constitutional rights to political speech. Ill advised, he didn't pursue his reasonable complaint with FCC. So say it was youse who was the candidate for our highest office, instead of that pseudo self-compulsed patriot, Ross Perot. Say it was you who wanted to give a speech on a famous street corner, or in the city park, and the permit required for your speech was denied.

Could you move immediately for Writs and Orders to Show Cause in your local Federal District Court, right next door to where your right-to-access-for-political speech was in dispute? Of course. It's your own First Amendment Rights at stake!

In the heat of your campaign, you could petition for redress of your grievance, and the matter would be adjudicated within a forte night. Hark! Local issue e quills justice in a local court, with a simple Order. Our constitution challenged, is restored. Onward political street corner speech.

But our media access law, carefully crafted by Congress to protect our candidates' rights to mass media Political Speech, and ours, to privately assemble and digest their Political Speech, this priveledge granted our bona fide candidates, granting them an affirmative privileged right to non-commercial prime time, (PBS), or to purchase time (ABC, CBS, NBC, FOX, etc), though only utilized by the politishinz for airing their shoddy commercials, a tax on our own good taste, is exclusively under the over site of one slimy, slip shod agency's bureaucracy, instead of the courts, which clearly violates our First Amendment.

The FCC's policy and practice today, the living legacy of dead and buried Political Branch Chief Milton Gross, savages the teachings of our highest court, illustrated by FCC's own written records to date, that, to put off and delay any and all "speech" complaints against the broadcasters, especially those complaints of non-incumbent independent 3rd party candidates, until after the election passes, therefore Speech demolished, the Constitution trenched!

During the race to an election, the FCC claims they are so harried with complaints, but the record number of complaints filed with FCC's Political Branch, Enforcement Division during our last election, those constitutional complaints focused on a broadcaster's failure to give or sell air time to a bona fide candidate for federal elective office, can only be counted, finger by finger, on one amputated hand.

The "river of complaints" to FCC, mostly by incumbent candidates, only runs to the lowest unit rate being charged these anointed office seekers, for the air time they need to sway votes, not the air time itself, just the dollars involved. Time on air, these anointed politishinz always get, under 312(a)(7), Freedom of Speech and all of that.

CBS, Inc. v. F.C.C., 1981 was / is the most important decision rendered by the Supreme Court in the whole 20th century, only eclipsed, at the century's end, by our swash buckling unscarce growth of digital technology, for unlicensed internet enables any Elian online, using an off the shelf digital camcorder, with poetic license, to digitally broadcast world wide without permission or any pre-approval whatsoever from the Federali's Ex-communications Commission.

Lacking a bureaucracy, this newly found communications industry drives world markets and thrives with phenominal growth. But regardless of internet technology, the mass media speech statute, still in effect today, clearly violates our Constitution, and cannot be preserved absent some juris remodeling.

This FCC made stench of agency, their Political Branch, with its history of delay, splintered limbs and speech denied en bureaucratic banq, is exactly what the founding fathers had in mind for us not to have when they crafted our First Amendment!

Our founding fathers teach that Congress is prohibited from passing laws that infringe our First Amendment rights.

Bureaucracies become the government, slowly eating your rights, until you forget you ever had any. Our party beholden elected representatives function more as protectors of this standing government, then representatives of us. On January 7, 2000, CNBC anchor Brian Williams remarked for his cable audience, about the FCC, "They have jurisdiction over the broadcast industry." Check broadcaster in your dictionary!

Unsullied candidates, qualified for public office, their privileged rights to televised broadcast speech well settled by the Supreme Coats, need just one teensy basic right enhanced, by Congress and the Courts, to put things straight, as long as we are leaving this sadly out-dated enema within, fixed in place to operate.

We require, simply stated, the right to an express avenue for the swift conduce of justice, absent remedial exhaustion, when affirmative rights to access for Political Speech are denied, this Franchise Express Manifest in the local Federal District Court closest to the license-barracaded stations, where you, the candidate compelled, with your rights disenfranchised, arose to give a speech.

This simple change in jurisdiction is required.

Jurisdiction is paramount, instant justice our only remedy, not codified regulatory threshold bona fides, cluttered by some far away slime-bagged agency of government, with its own secretive, swastikian labyrinth regulations, coded behind closed doors, a virtually impossible remedy exhaust, else our whole electoral franchise, hollowed out, is crashed.

I love the law. I brought this issue of my censored presidential candidacy, as my own constitutional rights have always been trashed, every step of the way, all the way to our highest court. Speech. In every bare foot detoured step of the way along the winding unspoke road to Justice with the Coats, I have always been denied a public hearing, that constitutionally guaranteed, protected Public Interest element, at every administrative level, felled.

For conspiracy theorists, regardless of bent, take into account, any and all of my carefully crafted requests for a chance to speak on behalf of my candidacy, an exercise of my affirmative rights, were guaranteed to be rejected, in advance, by J. Edgarina Hoover's mass medja hive legacy.

Instead of my rights upheld, I would always be Jew-poet denied, my requests for access, and complaints to their agency dragged out, cindered, and sloughed. Speech, tavarichka, speech is what we talkin' 'bout.

We know that closeted swish, J. Edgarrina, feared and hated creative writers, especially Jews. There are books published, documented via Freedom of Information Act, revealing that car loads of stuff were gathered on various citizens by Hoover's intelligence capos. But these published books are focused on famous people like Jane Fonda, John Lennon, and Alan Ginsberg.

What of those potential citizen leaders FBI besmirched we never saw or heard about; unknown people J. Edgar targeted as threats to our way of life, kids, really whose lives were then cash in advance fascist bureaucracy ink infected, their telephones tapped and friendships destroyed, with college records altered so their futures in the marketplace, except as independent entrepreneurs, would always be subverted, especially from political life.

Where is the follow up on all the unknown poets who proclaimed with buttons blazing, "Question Authority," and, "Women hold up half the sky." How many of those felt in their bones they had to disguise their beliefs, or shed their deeply held convictions, to get a steady job?

In all my personally, painstakingly researched Formal Complaints, which, under our statutes, require public hearings at the administrative level, I was always most unreasonably denied speech, that access sought to state my case to the electorate, fascisticly deprived, always, of any fairness or justice sought, and always stone walled, the record shows, from redress of my grievance at the agency's required public hearing, another form of protected speech, the FCC's stonewall their policy for all of my complaints to them. Always. Rodney Dangerfield's trademark delight.

Today, my not-so-current well-ripened Section 312(a)(7) dispute, from 1991, hangs with Rhenquist, Chief of all Coats, in the Supreme Court, but only by a kevlar shred of The Coat's own weave.

I'd given up on administrative justice, tired of waiting for the agency's final slug on my last and most excellent Application for Review, that topping off my masterpiece of Formal Complaint, to which, in 1991 the rigid FCC had no response.

When it comes to the law and the violated rights of Michael Stephen Levinson, the FCC's staff attorneys are constitutional losers. All the appellate decisions supported my 1991 request for access, and of the Bureau cases I cited, there was one amazing bull's eye, a Teddy Kennedy complaint to FCC, stumbled into, by God's grace, one quiet night in a law school library, in the FCC's own Law Review, with slippery slope extrapolations by one Henry Geller, the FCC's own retired General Counsel.

Super. The ad min case I cited made clear, beyond any shadow, I was entitled to the time I sought, but I couldn't scale the FCC's self-bureau-made stone walls. So I got on with my life, and grated my homeless, ungiven speech.

I have waited a long long time, to very simply say a delicate poem, spout some rhyme, as president of United States, world wide, running and punning in every spoken tongue, so to create, with my dusk until dawn mull tie ling well world wide verse, the first peaceful night in five thousand years of recorded history, thus beginning a change in the course of human history, on the good ship mother earth.

Such is the miss tickle nature of my yet to be given campaign speech. Patience is a virtue. Every thing that ever happened in the world happened for a rea zun. "What ha pens next / God own le nose."

The election was history and nearly two years passed. Then one day, in 1994, I chance picked up The Wall Street Gurgle, and behold! a mealy mouthed op-ed, back-grounded in gray, focused on FCC, Rupert Murdoch, and Fox Tv, by my old nemesis, Bob Wright, the prezzo of NBC, prompting your humble non-stop candidate to start smashing out his own retro-view of the Ex Communications Commission: "312(a)(7) or Siberia, Standing Lookout for Public Office Aboard the S/S FCC Treblinka."

Immediately, for openers, I recollected an old FCC inspired quatrain: "Wear this gold star, Jew / So we can see who you are, / Board this railroad car, / Your campaign is a goin' to Babyyar."

Drafting away, giant strings of word spouts flowing, on a lark angelicly inspired, I telephoned the FCC's Political Branch, where I am persona non grata, my cases against them taught to fresh-faced interns.

With bated breath, my voice, goofed in disguise so to spoof the operator, after a moment's hold, was put through to an intern. I asked a stew dense classroom question, and then inquired, my goofy voice suddenly normalized, "by the way, what was the final disposition of that Michael Levinson case. He filed an Application for Review . . . " but not revealing that it was Michael Levinson, the candidate on the telephone asking.

Whelp, their stealthy skud of guided do-do, flushed by an Angel guiding me, was about to cream the wrong fan. The FCC trainee fumbled, and put me back on hold. A solid minute passed, and then the familiar voice, "Robert Baker here."

"Robert Baker," I softly repeated, and Baker yelped, "Holy Moley it's you."

It turned out FCC's overly ripened rule - after two years of anal retentive making - was finally 12 days fresh splat, alive in the 30 day window for appellate review, but, "no we will not send you a copy of the ruling," that illegitimate, inappropriate answer passed along from now retired dead and buried Bureau Chief Gross, who was, as always in life, running Baker's show, the silent participant when my calls went through to his soon-to-be-the-chief staff attorney.

Cocky and sticky, this alien creature, this rigid protege bureaucracy that sucks our tax wealth from within, and feeds off itself to multiply.

So after more than two years delay, FCC's final caprice, that running four pages deep, an epic for them, was slip-cased loose in the Federal Register during the last doggy days of June, when all of Washington is out of town, vacationing before the July 4th fireworks display.

Slip-cased loose means the ruling would've lain buried for months before reaching the general public through repository libraries, that arrival, long after the 30 day window for appeal is closed. The world wide web, where everything today is instantly available, was brand new, but back then, a lifetime ago, ad judicatory rulings on complaints, after their publication in the Federal Record, were only available via snail mail.

I filed timely notice, and petitioned for Review in the Court of Appeals. Our second highest court then issued its own orders to show cause, and voted en banq against even hearing my appeal, citing two unrelated cases. The first of their case citations was an FCC matter, though far and away off point from our access laws.

Petitioners in that first citation had their timely hearing at the administrative level, where FCC, after microscopic reconsideration, ruled against. The appellate court properly denied the complainant's petition, for their complaint was truly stale, lacking merit, and likely docketed just for lawyers' churn.

On my Application for Review, attached for the Court, besides the new and novel issue raised at the agency level, Agency stone walled and entitled to review, I'd been stone walled, too, from my original complaint's entitlement to the public hearing I requested at the agency, regardless the quality of "new and novel" issues, as the hearing threshold, noted above, is also required by statute, so my case was much distinguished and far removed from the Court's prime citation of applicable rulings.

Furthermore, FCC's slam call against my request for access was tooled with fascist cues, those written in to annihilate all my future broadcast rights, too, the legacy on a long list of unconstitutional scurrilous last Bureau acts by the dead and buried Bureau Chief Gross!

The second of the Appellate Court's citations, fascistic buzz, en flames!

The petitioner in the 2nd of our 2nd highest court's citations had been employed by the District of Columbia. Getting fired from any government job seldom happens, and the record shows petitioner's termination of employment was of his own doing, for good cause: the repeated failure to perform simple duties, on request from his superiors.

The petitioner appealed his job dismissal directly to the appellate court, seeking redress there claiming, absent job reinstatement by Order of the District of Columbia Circuit Court of Appeals, petitioner could not afford to pay his mortgage or feed his kids, and petitioner's new deal, a welfare line, was irreparably harmful to petitioner.

This citation, a textbook example of a truly bizarre and frivolous case that legally could not be heard, and other of the court's self-generated frustraneous show causeways, in the Michael Stephen Levinson matter, smacks of Herr Goebbels building the railroad to Auschwitz. Chilling.

Moses the Teacher gave us our binding laws, his franchise, Universals with the Force. Our juris stems from English Common Law, tracing back to Mosha's works. Figure your poli-appointed blind appellatista jurists were just out of cite, circuit breached, and litmus reconfigured for their own personal poli-hinds. All rise for Coat's Supreme, Justice Future-focused!

How boringly convenient, our District of Columbia's circuit bench became a dull haunt of Shepherd's dross and trench, whilst the biggest schmuck petitioner of all is guttered, bereft of our departed legal giants, his kinsman, that bench full of giant red lions, who from the heavens watch.

And since Red Lion days, which of our presidents so richly stuffed our circuit courts with such a bunch of so very unoriginal, aristo-poli-crapos, there to clerk the work for future gain, that hive of bureaucra-jurists chopping away at all our hard cased First Amendment decisions, those most eloquent teachings of our Highest Court, by this pre-configured circuit under-crew, turned into just so much wasted tissue, to be flushed from their chambers with the waste water.

It must have been my tissue metaphor, paraphrased here, that irreparably stressed the District of Columbia's en banq bunch at brunch, digestives and all that.

Fascistically erroneous, that they are for sure, but they won't get off the stick. Or is it that other band, The Enema Within, J. Edgarrina Hoover's shod legacy, those rats of baton coats entrenched hiding inside FCC's labyrinth bureau? Is it Herr Goebbels Group, fearing the wurst? What fascistic bugged-up-ass drives their prob limmo, stifling your rights?

Why did our guys land on those beaches of Normandy, and Iwo Jima, anyway, and in more recent times, the orange clad jungles, and poisoned desert slimes, but for "The Franchise, to protect the vast panoply of our nation's living freedom, writes, and heritage. Political speech, the right thereof, distinguishes America from all the rest.

Grant there is humorous byte to my pronouncements, but nothing frivolous, or any frivo-louse descriptions here, in my active battle, covering more than sixteen years, to simply give a protected broadcast Political Speech on behalf of my life long candidacy. I actually declared my treck for our highest elective office, at age 4.

Relative to original papers brought to the administrative bar on the exhaustive road to remedy, there was but one error, that typo graphic, in my Formal Complaint of 1991-2, which the opponent station's counsels jumped on, of course, and distorted, the typo blown up, which FCC then repeated, for the FCC Record, with impermissible maliciousness, for agencies of the government are absent the right to malice.

Fascist, nothing less, when an obvious typo is misleadingly quoted as though fact, alive in a Rule Making FCC determination, expressly to stilt the Public's Record, and camouflage the railroad to political oblivion. An Eichmann like styled juris is not permitted in America. Not. Not before Elian Gonzalas.

Especially chilling, as the Court of Appeals relied on that same obviously-a-typo to misleadingly suggest that mine, or ours, was a frivolous matter, for the appellate court's citation would discourage 4th estate reporters from reviewing the matter, including the written records attached.

In spite of that, my final case still hangs by a kevlar thread in the Supreme Court. They received my petition, timely, August 21, 1995 and it was docketed September 7, 1995.

Then hark! After years on the road to justice, the oxen driven wheels of jurisprudential (used to be prudence) started to peel, petal to the mettle in place. No. 95-5876, according to the Supreme Court's own hacked data bank, was distributed to the clerks, for the Justices to pre-review, on November 16, 1995. The papers were then delivered to their conference Chambers for the Supreme Coat's December 1, 1995, Friday conference, at which time the Coats instantly voted to zap petitioner's Writ.

This wheels of justice issue needs some tabloid investigation, a first, because the process of Supreme Court review was Rhenquist rearranged for scurrilous reason. Hot Hot Hot. But in consideration of the many thousands of pro se in forma paupuris applications for writs our highest court receives every year, mine did reach the judges' chambers. From session to session perhaps one or two pro se cases get that far.

The Supreme Coat's Rhenquist inspired Certiorarian trashing was released three days later, on Dec. 4, which was hark! Ground Hog Day for presidential wannabees in New Hampshire, coincidentally, the first opportunity petitioner had to officially reactivate his unstoppable candidacy for president with unquestionable ballot status, which would have dramatically primed our docket in the Supreme Court, and my rights to Instant Remedy with Goldbar and the Coats.

Justice isn't blind! Only her doors are locked and the lights out.

After September 7, and before November 16, a blink in courtroom litigation, the Solicitor General's office filed a carefully tailored Supreme Court Brief in Opposition, filled with inaccurate background, to discourage our highest court from hearing the case!

I hold the Court's docket numbers were capriciously reordered, for cases that far along are mostly moved for hearing, not dismissive decisions. The Solicitor General's Office would not, and cannot be bothered with lengthy Opposition Briefs to frivolous, soon-to-be trashed petitions, and unlike dishonest narco-detectives, one stretches to imagine, the Solicitor General does not "lie" under oath.

Petitioner's Response to the Solicitor's Opposition Brief, with certified documents attached, exposed the nation's top attorney, the Solicitor General, as misleading the Highest Bench, where he was an officer of the court, with key statements knowingly grounded in falsified historical records, from his client, the FCC. Fascist coating, and all of that, or was it justa typo?

Years ago, a Solicitor General's misleading our highest court would have been seen as beyond a mere inappropriate breach, and headlined everywhere. As far as the Solicitor General goes, shortly after my response, he self-spirited off, but not far enough, returning to a waiting post at Yale.

The Solicitor should have gone to Macau with Charlie Yah lin Trie, to open up a fast food restaurant, offering fast food with fast sex to the local governors.

Lucky for us and unlucky for the Solicitor General's office, my pro se thread bare case is kevlar with the Coats, according to the court's own rules, and still alive!

When I submitted my Petition for Reconsideration, I failed to include an affidavit stating I wasn't delaying matters to avoid the outcome. There isn't any time limit on in forma papuris papers returned to petitioner for resubmission, as long as they were originally filed within their established time line, which mine were, on December 29, 1995.

But The Supreme Coats aren't going to hear or even read my case, not mine or yours, chump, unless they hear or read about it first, in noose papers of shlepurd, to which they all subscribe, or chomp on with breakfast.

Appreciate, that had the Supreme Court initially granted petitioner's Writ of Certiorari, I would have been entitled to instant Bold Measures before our highest court, which I sought going in, and that would have been the cover story of every magazine, in January 1996, in the heat of campaigning, arguing my case, pro se, on behalf of the American people, for the access I was clearly entitled to, and I would have won make up time, too, from NBC-TV, and PBS, before the New Hampshire primary, showing America that amongst all of her candidates, I was and remain the one most qualified to place my hand on the Bible, and be sworn by oath to defend our constitution.

The security of all our rights is my electronic street corner purpose here, and on that behalf, to deliver the most political information, for the least amount of money, at least world wide on the internet, so public knowledge joins this constitutional challenge.

The beltway darkness cast on issues is the fascist's dark delight. The internet is changing that.

I believe The Supreme Coats never read my petition, though amongst them, someone did. They did not even glance at papers attached. They could not have! Nor can their Certiorari coating grant the Court certiorari to sit above our laws! That certiorarian right, though unchallenged since its inception in the Coats' Supreme docket history, is beyond the breach! Beyond.

When the Public Interest is at stake, where the First Amendment petitioner is a presidential candidate, then his and the whole nation's constitutional rights are staked together at bar, clearly bound!

Notwithstanding who, petitions brought with new and novel First Amendment constitutional issues, with prime face records of an agency in gross violation of its own codified regulations, cannot be trenched or set aside without the Court's violation of its own bench, that ultimate balance in our public affairs required by our most hallowed franchise, the Constitution, itself!

In the world's total history of jurisprudence, nothing ever brought to any court matches my standing with this Supreme Court, the individual rights of our whole nation at bar, except petitioner's standing in that famous case, Moses v. King Ramses.

The Supreme Coats seriously need to reconsider their having taken the side of Yule B. Ramses' Bar, for Mosha Rah Bay New, Moses the Teacher, we are taught, did teach Ramses a lesson or two.

Though Moses' original petition was denied, at least he was granted his hearing in King Ramses' court.

Who knows when the clarion ram's horn blows, calling thousands of citizen campers to alite the court house steps, as locusts with sleeping bags attached, the door posts and all that granite, Whermacht painted thru the night, portent of unheard petitions and tea party's past.

Well, my Certiorari spliffle floors the lawyers, and is beyond dispute. I say the Coats could not have read those papers in a million years, but regardless who read what, I'm going to publish all of my court house papers, everything, besides this ruffle, for all to see on the internet, including perhaps, a video of my planned moot court, "The Case Unheard."

Then it will be clear to all that our fed a rill franchise truly is hollowed out, which in itself, calls for taking bold measures, and taking leave of this remarkably boring, clerk fed Highest Court, for staining the memory of its own teachings, and the lives of those who gave their fox hole lives, defending those high teachings.

For my Moot Coat, "The Case Unheard v. Darkness at 10 A.M.," I'm hard pressed to find a single attorney to take the agency's position, for the Coat's denial of my Writ, left unchallenged, and who can challenge them, though I am challenging you, translates thus:

Now and forever, any broadcaster can counter-offer any reasonable request for access by any candidate for president, or any federal elective office with, "Five minutes is all we are willing to give or sell," blah blah blah, and these counter offers, to every unknown poet candidate the broadcaster doesn't like, will automatically be upheld regardless of complaint to FCC by the independent candidate seeking time, as FCC ruled already that five minutes was not unreasonable in Michael Stephen Levinson v. WGBH and NHPTV, which FCC furthermore cited in a Fulani case, in '96, (citation ommitted) thus aggrieved complainant denied, unless you're a sitting president, or office holding senator who wants more time, and then, you'll get the time you seek without the stations wasting your time, tendering bogus counter offers. So it goes for the anointed in their public offices. Five whole stinking minutes is all that's guaranteed for you and me.

Thus, our nation's First Amendment Broadcast Rights, affirmed in the benchmark CBS, INC. v. F.C.C. have been affirmatively pre-wiped for the waste water, slipped for the flush, that a fascist's masterpiece, the teaching of our Highest Court, trenched without hearing or any other record of Public Notice, as our laws require.

It won't matter that in the final days of campaigning your opponent candidates are getting half hour blocks of time from the broadcast networks to state their case, you will be denied, and offered five minutes, their hand in glove FCC, a fascistic iron curtain, guarding the portal station's door.

But with everything winding up on the internet, the FCC's and the Supreme Coats' power is eclipsed by my planned moot court. Knowledge is power, and on the world wide web, my case unheard can be presented to millions of desk toppers at any time.

For the Supreme Coats, you wait years and maybe the Coats will grant you thirty minutes. Why bother making reapplication for a writ and hearing on the merits, when given their chance, all the Coats are going to do is zap the writ and kill our rights?

Originally I believed in the Supreme Coats. The Supreme do-whoppers. I planned on spending my first precious minutes in the Supreme Court, with the Coats, crafting, in paragraphic rhyme, my biblical argument, shepherding the unexpurgated true story of King Solomon and Baby "Eliana," as King Solomon v. Baby "Eliana," that original courtroom baby's name transliterated, is the prime citation that irrefutably proves my case!

This most famous of ancient cases, its dna in our bones, was to be respouted by me for the Coats, within the framework of our current laws. That was is my plan.

All my FCC2d cases, and Appellate cases, and their own S.Ct. cases supporting my arguement, all that I prepared to cite and splay by heart were secondary to King Solomon. With only a half hour guaranteed, it's King Solomon's for cite ruling that reverberates right on the mark, and King Solomon's wisdom then and now is so much higher then this currently blabberific, so-called most high court.

Nothing ever written by this contempoary band of Coats even approaches Solomon, prudence of juris and all of that.

But, dear readers, first things first, for when it came to King Solomon's famous Baby "Eliana" case, the King, wise and Holy Prophet that he was, smelt the truth birthing behind the two fake mothers' pleadings in his Most High Court, almost from jump street.

Solomon's Chief clerk, a learned Rabbi, he, in the heat of the morning trial, along with the King on a trip to the pit, told King Solomon the real deal behind Baby "Eliana" that he, the Rabbi, had first hand from a camel driver traveling to Cairo, who'd passed through Jerusalem the night before, from of all places, the little town of Sidon where the bawling baby shiksa was born: the truth in this matter was that neither of the two women petitioning in King Solomon's Court for custody of Baby "Eliana," was Baby "Eliana's" actual mother!

Deep ending, de pen ding, depending on who you talk to, or which hollywood movie you saw, the Hebrew Sages tell us there were originally two new born babies and two mothers, but one of the mothers' babies died in child birth, and both of the mothers pleading before King Solomon were claiming the one remaining child as their own.

But in fact there was only one new baby born, baby "Eliana." And baby "Eliana's" actual true mother hemoraged and died giving birth to "Eliana." This tragedy took place in Sidon, at the other end of the Hebrew kingdom, where Baby "Eliana" was born, and where the case should have been heard and decided in the first place, INS, Elian Gonzalas' jurisdiction and all of that!

So of the two women pleading before King Solomon, it happened both were attending midwives at the baby's birth, assisting the sickly mother in delivering her Baby Eliana; and both, it appeared, fell in love with the new baby on sight, because the new baby at birth smiled and gurgled with ivory soap style, and between the women's wailings and bickering back and forth in King Solomon's Court, both of these would-be mothers waxed equally euphoric about their sense of motherhood.

King Solomon wasn't a schmuck born yesterday. King Solomon was a holy man. He had a thousand wives, and his own Child Protective, managed by the B'nai Briss Ladies Auxiliary. He was also considered the greatest love poet to have ever lived and is the author of The Song of Songs.

Solomon knew instantly what should be done, upon the ring of truth in his chief clerk Rabbi's hearsay: dismiss the matter of this motherless shicksa baby without prejudice, and remand Baby "Eliana," to his own High Court's Child Protective for clean diapers, as the baby's soiled diapers were stinking up the court, a wet nurse, instead colicky goat's milk, and then interviews for adoption, which is exactly what Solomon planned.

But the would-be mothers' continuously bickering back and forth challenged King Solomon's T'fillin wrapped temper, besides nearly ruining King Solomon's favorite thursday lunch, that a rack of hot lamb, medium rare, washed down with goblets of kosher merlot, for good circulation.

So this bold idea of King Solomon's, loudly calling on his personal butcher to chop Baby "Eliana" in half, ruled on the spot at his adjournment for lunch, upon his butcher's appearance at the Courtroom side door to announce that King Solomon's lunch was only three minutes from the table; and upon that, the instant ruling by King Solomon that even silenced the bawling baby in King Solomon's cluttered court that day, was only a lark, the Holy King's court ordered lark, really, an afterthought lark on King Solomon's part, as he rose to depart for his noon time pre-lunch prayers.

But hearing just what the Holy King Solomon said, deciding as he went, and the women's response, and who said what on that unbearably hot humid, diaper-loaded day in King Solomon's court, is not what you have been told before, so for the true Levite tale, you must await my own day in a moot court, perhaps with some randomly selected citizen Coats, jumping jurisdiction, gag jewels, and all the rest.

Much better, that! I ought to skip reopening with the supremely dull Coats, and instead, appeal to the courts of Opra and Montrell, to get me some courtroom practice, and chance on the Justices benched, chosen from Opra's and Montrell's audience. "C'monnnn down. Your choice: black robes, or white sheet with a hood."

How else for the people to hear my legal argument, couched in the story of King Solomon and Baby "Eliana," and then judge for themselves who wins the case. It's the American people's case, when brought, as much as mine, jurisdiction, the rights to a hearing, and all of that.

Or should I reapply, and await my final chance with lackluster Rhenquist and his side kick Coats, to slip my own fat haired paralegal into their stodgy court, coifed with a hidden mini-cam to record the sleepers benched. Sell those snoozing Clarence Thomas tapes to Current Affair.

Betcha Goldbar and the Coats would not hesitate ordering my arrest, and for what that, publicizing all their bureaucratic coating that we, the anti-fascist people so largely detest?

So to our Elian. Elian. That name sure does ring an ancient bell. In the words of Sage Yogi Berra, on the political case that was recently before us, 'It's deja Eliana all over again.' And what, you inquire, does the love poet prophet of a thousand one night stands have to say today about Elian Gonzalas, the most famous six year old refugee kid living in our universe?

This just in from King Solomon: We should use (should have used) the latest technology, instead of a courtroom butcher's blade to chop this current Eliana kid in half, so all sides could have won!

Juan Miguel should have been sent back to Cuba with an Apple imac Special Edition computer, set for maximum cable modem speed, or wireless connection to the internet. Included with the powerful imac, a video cam attached to the monitor and a digital cam corder for home movies away from the imac.

The same set up could've also served fine for Elian's Miami family. Then father and son would have been enabled to talk to each other every day using intenet video telephony. They would never have been more than a mouse click away from each other.

In the event Elian took a dollar from Maryislysis' dresser, and ran outside to buy an ice cream treat off the musical truck, trecking through the neighborhood before supper, it would have been for Juan Miguel to instruct Elian's great uncle, Lazaro, to give Elian a potch on his tushy and send him to bed an hour early without any desert.

On a monday evening, Maryislysis could have read Elian a bed time story, like, "The Three Bears and the Chicken Soup," (my mother's version), and the next evening, over the internet, Juan Miguel could've read a Cuban bed time story, "Little Red Riding Fidel-hood."

In this manner, Elian Gonzalas would have been raised with the best of both possible worlds, his father nearby, and his own actual life in sweet freedom. The diplomatic door would have then been wide open to genuine change for the betterment of all parties in our relationships with Fidel and his oppressed Cuban people.

But this was clearly not meant to be. So to understand, which means, to get beneath, to really understand this saga, and sense the involvement of our "Lan Lord uh pin heaven," God's doing what did come down here, in the promised land of the free, and why our government's bureaucracy was made to topple our basic freedom, we must devote at least a few moments more in revisiting the original King Solomon "Eliana" case from long ago:

King Solomon, knowing by mid-morning that both of the so-called mothers before him were lying thru their teeth, and knowing almost from the outset, that the baby Eliana case before his Highest Court should've been brought in Sidon town court, close by to where the little shiksa was born, jurisdiction and all that, the holy King Solomon was only being polite, letting the would-be mothers go on and on, the both of them taking turns holding the baby in their arms before him.

But as King Solomon stood up, adjourning the court to depart for noon time prayers before his rack of lamby lunch, he spontaneously made his dramatic ruling with a slam of the gavel that totally silenced his noisy court that day, including even the orphaned baby goil.

It was so quiet after that gavel slam, when King Solomon announced, "We shall chop this baby in half so each of the mothers gets the baby," you could have heard the swish of King Solomon's prayer shawl in the pin drop silenced courtroom.

But the Holy King did hesitate as turned toward the side door, which, the sages tell us, was on Solomon's left, and from his raised bench, King Solomon momentarily stood and looked at the silenced baby, and then held out his hand as though measuring the kid up for the butcher, and said, to the butcher, this overly loud for all the witnesses in his crowded court, "butcher, when you chop this baby down the middle, put the nose to the right side half. It looks to me from here at the bench the kid's nose does favor the woman before me on the right."

"Court adjourned and case dismissed! Lunnch time." With that Solomon began to sing as he headed toward the door, "rack of lamby here I come here I come, rack of lamby here I come praise all the lambies in our land."

At that, the woman on the right put her nose in the air and said, for her own group of supporters at her side, "You see, I told you so. The baby favors me."

Solomon was done with the case, at least done with the two pleading women before him, and heading to the side door, singing away, and telling the butcher to run ahead check the rack so as not to burn his lamb.

But the other would-be mom was a silent Maryslysis, devastated at King Solomon's ruling from the bench. Then Maryslysis jumped the railing, which no one had ever done before, and ran to King Solomon who was almost out the courtroom side door.

She fell to the ground at King Solomon's feet and clutched at his robes, and loud enough for only King Solomon's ears she said to King Solomon, "Don't kill the baby. Take my life instead. Take my life. Let the baby have a life. Please Holy King, let the baby have her life."

Had this would-be mother said to King Solomon, as all the sages recount, "Don't kill the baby. Let the baby have a life. Give it to the other woman to raise instead," King Solomon, in his wisdom, would have denied her plea because King Solomon was only kidding around in the first place. The one and only thing King Solomon knew for sure on that brutally hot and humid pre-global-warming day, was that both of these women before him, in his, King Solomon's Highest Court in all the land of Isreal, were liars. Liars.

But the forlorn Marysleysis did not just say, as you might have said in that circumstance, "Don't chop the baby in half. Let the baby have a life. Give the baby to the other one to raise." Indeed, she said much more than that.

Like a true mother, like Elian's mother, Elizabeth Brotons, baby Eliana's mid-wife was willing to give up her own life so the baby could have a life because she loved the baby, and on that, King Solomon saved himself the trouble of dismissing the sticky case before him, without prejudice, and putting the orphaned shicksa into his own child protective before hearings for adoption, and instead he gave the baby to the woman who plead at his feet because he sensed that she would be a truely great mother to the stinky diapered orphaned baby shicksa, "Eliana."

Regardless what the Sages say about how the case was decided, Solomon was the author behind, and God spoke to King Solomon and told Solomon to retell the story for posterity, somewhat erroneously in fact, because God in his wisdom knew that we, his chosen people would see another baby Eliana, this time around, a Cuban refugee, Elian Gonzalas, entitled to freedom, and to a life here in the promised land, instead of emotional death in Cuba.

The child before us today, or rather yesterday, Elian Gonzalas, was saved at sea on Thanks Giving Day, a Holy Day for the American people who live in the promised land. Sew it was written, "This is the promised land / That was then / This is now / Each land show its promise / Pow wow to the pea pull / Up with the folks."

Donato Dalrymple, a fisherman for that one day only, recounts he saw a pair of dolphins jumping up and down in and out of the water, making a tail thwacking ruckus to attract the boater's attention, and he convinced his cousin, who owned the boat, to steer the boat over to the inner tube to see what was going on, where they saw Elain Gonzalas, in the words of "the fisherman" Doanato Dalrymple, in the water, as beautiful as a freshly plucked flower on the seatop.

Donato's cousin, who incidentally knew how to swim, jumped into the ocean with the pair of dolphin life guards standing by, and Doanto lifted Elian from his cousin, out of the sea and onto the boat. Donato took the kid into his arms and cradled the worn out Elian to his bosom.

This one day only fisherman, Donato Dalrymple, is a humble servant of God who was prompted to go fishing that day to find Elian Gonzalas, for his cousin, alone on the water, would have kept to his fishing, and not steered the boat over to the dolphins. Left to himself, the cousin would have assumed the dolphins were only playing with what appeared to be a drifting inner tube.

The dolphins hung around the boatside for a few minutes, to make sure the kid they'd baby sat all the way over from the Florida straits to the eastern seacoast of United States was all right, and then the pair of dolphins swam off to catch themselves some much needed lunch, not having had anything to eat, like their charge, Elian, for at least two days.

Solomon muses on : There were phone calls from Juan Miguel, to his Miami relatives, in the days before his son, Elian was recovered at sea. Juan Miguel advised his Miami relatives that Elian and his mother, Elizabeth Brotans, had skipped Cuba for America, and that Juan Miguel's Miami relatives should keep a lookout for them, so they would have a place to stay upon their arrival.

That Elian Gonzalas was found and saved at sea the way he was happened because of the spirited dolphins who stayed with the sea stranded kid for two whole days, this a most highly unlikely dolphin behavior in five thousand years of recorded anecdotal dolphin history. Two or three hours? Yes. But two whole days and nights? Why?

In God's Universe God is ruler and one of his rules in our expanding Cosmos is clear : there is a first time for everything, or, you don't step into the same river twice; or, put another way, whatever is, is.

The dolphins inspired, were a special pair, and they kept watch and kept their charge, Elian Gonzalas alive by swiming directly underneath him when he fell asleep, using their ocean worthy tails to prop the weakened little kid as he began to slip off the inner tube, dozing into the unbridled sea.

In this manner, propping Elian back onto the inner tube when the six year old fell asleep, the dolphins, inspired by a holy spirit, kept this very special kid, Elian Gonzalas alive.

This was a miracle from God, noted by all the God believing Cubans living in America. For the Cuban refugees in Miami, Elian Gonzalas was a refugee message sent to them from God above, though poor Elian remains an unexplained message to them, but the message of Elian was also a message to all of the American people, though this is surely unclear to the vast majority of the American people, who cannot be faulted for failing to see, living as they do in such a sea of flowing information, they quickly lose track, and miss the details, as yesterday's events are daily washed with fresh news and views.

Solomon, the Holy King muses on: when the Hebrew nation was unwilling to leave Egypt, God came into Ramses' mind and hardened his heart so the Hebrew nation then suffered a great affliction. Another translation of the original Hebrew word for affliction, is tax.

It is the people's tax that paid for Clintstones and Janet Reno's fascistic storm troopers, King Solomon muses.

Acording to the Holy King Solomon, in the Florida straits there are, at all times, a platoon of angels, stationed there to minister the souls that depart their bodies in the heavy seas when their boats capsize and the refugees are swallowed by the ocean, or mauled on the seatop by waiting sharks and bled from there into a state of shock before their souls are departed from their water logged bodies.

When a pair of angels on the spot heard Elizabeth Brotons counseling her Elian that God would watch over him and he, Elian would get to America and she, his mother, would always be with him, a third spirit, she of the most high owner of the universe, God's Mendel river first wife, came amongst the powerless guarding angels.

It was this most high spirit lady above the angels and dolphins, momentarily higher even than Mother Nature, the unsayable holiest of holies' first wife, it was she, fronting for God, who personlly heard the cry out to God from Elizabeth Brotons that God should protect her only son Elian, and this Mendel spirit who'd appeared on the scene knew immediately why she, a most highly independent lady spirit in her own right, just happened to be in that sea top neighborhood on that particularly windy ocean filled day, with the ever hidden ruler of the universe close at hand.

When something is truly mystical, as are both the musings of King Solomon, and the story of Elian at sea, we miss a lot but we get a tickle.

We don't understand. Understanding, the word itself, comes from the Greek, and means, to get beneath, as the dolphins got beneath the famous sea stranded kid, Elian Gonzalas, and kept him alive and afloat, so you dear readers, will get beneath this tale, to better understand your own King Clintstone.

Why and how the dolphins knew Elian would not survive without them is an occurance we, mere people, cannot understand, but nevertheless we feel God's power and His truth in our bones.

The heavenly spirit at the waves with Elian, after his mother Elizabeth Brotons was swallowed by the raging sea, the spirit above the angels there, the spirit mother of nature, the Mendel-Mother River of Life spirit lady ordered the two angels to keep a close watch - it was an order from her - ordering one of life's miracles - like the parting of the sea - though not exactly contradicting Mother nature's guarantee, the spirit lady's soul mercy filled most high order, given to the angels standing seatop watch while she, the spirit most close to the highest of the high, personally rustled that pair of volunteer dolphins who were carefully instructed by the lady spirit to do her personal bidding, and so the dolphins would do the spirit lady's bidding and keep the child alive for the currents to carry Elian to America, regardless of dangerous dolphin threatening sharks or inner tube swamping waves, or schools of tasty smelts swimming a quarter mile yonder!

"He has nothing to eat, either, so you can wait for your hearty lunch" the spirit lady instructed her pair of deputized dolphin protectors.

So it was this true love child, Elian, born in and out of wedlock, was singled out, like Moses the Teacher was singled out, to be up the creek without a paddle, and to survive and live in freedom in America.

Fidel, at first, is not sure what he should or could do, though Fidel thought he ought to do something as this refugee kid, saved on Thanksgiving Day, was getting world wide attention, and returned to Cuba, perhaps this homeless refugee Elian could prop up Fidel's aging revolution.

Except we know that Elian is now back in Cuba and he doesn't appear to be propping up anything. On Elian's current life there is a news black out, though The Wall Street Gurgle accurately reports that Elian, back in Cuba, has been taken away from his father, Juan Miguel, and is now being carefully reprogrammed, King Solomon muses, with a breakfast of scopalamine and ritalin, to wipe out the memories of Maryslysis and Disneyland, so the wise King Solomon digresses.

Going back then, before the Clintstone shakedown, Fidel was powerless to do anything regardless what he, Fidel thought, as half of his country would have done the same thing as Elian Gonzalas and left Cuba immediately for America, just like Elian and his mother, Elizabeth Brotons, were Fidel's Cuban populace only given the chance to depart Castro's Stalinistic Cuban life.

The only other survivors of that tragically fatefull trip, incidentally, the only people who paid hard money to Elizabeth Broton's savior boyfriend to make the trip across the straits to America, are an unmarried couple who are today living their new life in America.

They recollect there was this one little boy on that overcrowded flat bottom aluminum boat who kept saying, over and over to everyone aboard, "I'm going to America. I'm going to America." The so-called independent press disregarded these two survivors, ignoring the story they could tell.

That Elian kept saying over and over, "I'm going to America, I'm going to America" tells King Solomon that Elizabeth Brotons, Elian's mother planned the trip to United States well in advance, and that Elian was a party to her secret plan to leave Cuba from the moment she hatched her plan to escape Cuba for a new life in America, and Elian was psyched up for the trip, in advance.

At first the US government bureaucracy is cooperative with Elian's Miami family, as we have special laws for Cuban defectors. Then the INS has a change of policy and attitude, and Janet Reno remarked, as was reported in someone's article, though not looked into or followed up on by the rest of the so-called independent press, that she, Janet Reno, "had had a phone call."

For King Solomon, all the bits and pieces have already fallen into place, as they shall for you, too, dear readership mates.

As the Elian case began building to a shark like feeding frenzy in the Washington, D.C. medja, esteemed New York Slimes rag doll, Maureen Dowd, the talented pseudo journalista, that fading op-ed gal who utilizes her reportorial role only occasionally for her special reparte, that replete with Dowdy nitty gritty; ah, tis our witty The New York Slimes rag doll Dowd who did properly remark, "dads are a dime a dozen," and further along, she made note that when our never married Attorney Generalista, Janet Reno waxed euphoric about her firm, unyeilding intent to see Elian reunited with his papa, Juan Miguel, Generalista Reno sounded, according to the svelte rag doll Dowd, "almost schmaltzy."

The talented mascarading journalista grows loose tongued with her six figure salary, stocking options, and aging bottom spread.

Schmaltz is rendered kosher chicken fat, and there are two things we can say for sure that Janet Reno is not: Kosher, which means clean, and a chicken.

But Janet Reno does get misty eyed, after her INS illegally seized the child to end the custody battle before it began. We are told that Janet Reno cried when she gave the fascist order to break down the great uncle Lazaro's doors, and violate our constitition, at the same time violating also her charge to uphold and defend our constitution, but she appeared misty eyed on TV as she imagined out loud for the attending press, the image of Elian being reunited with his "daddy," Juan Miguel, on the US government plane that morning.

Ahh, this Janet Reno - why and how does she did she work herself into such a misty eyed frame of mind? Because Janet Reno was / is imagining herself when she was a little girl, of three or four years old, running to the front gate to greet her own "daddy" coming home from work.

Though Elian calls Juan Miguel, "Pappa," Janet Reno refered to Juan Miguel as Elian's "daddy." She was really waxing euphoric about herself, Janet Reno as a little girl! Otherwize, without imagining herself when, as a little girl, her daily ritual was to run to the front gate and shout, "Daddy, Daddy," she could not have carried out the unconstitutional Clintstone inspired orders.

Solomon muses: Reno was ordered, in no uncertain terms to violate the constitution of the United States by Bruce Lindsey, Clinton's go between in all of the Clintstone's tough-it-out top secret deals.

The Washington press corp failed to ask Janet Reno or any of her chief lieutenants, who she, and / or her honcho bureaucrat advisors were in touch with in the White House, or who it was was in touch with them from the White House.

Had they asked Reno that key question: who in the White House was calling the shots, and named some names in their quest for answers, and popped the name Bruce Lindsey, for one, the only person president Clintstone could have trusted in this, Reno would, we like to imagine, have truthfully answered.

But Janet Reno was not about to name any names on her own, or volunteer that she, Janet Reno was only a pawn.

After Elian was seized by the fascistic INS, at gunpoint, that very morning, Maryslysis Gonzalas held a press conference. The conference was played in full by Fox News. It was one of the most articulate speeches ever given by an American woman in our whole history. Maryslysis is blessed and her soul was especially inspired that day from God.

On sight, when Elian met Uncle Lazaro's daughter, he adopted this reincarnated Maryslysis, and she is Elian's only mother here on the earth, a role Marysleysis did not seek, but was given to her from the Holy Spirit that governs our universe.

President Clintstone also held a brief press conference about Elian, a few hours after Elian was seized at gunpoint. Competing with Attorney General Reno, or taking his cues from watching her, Clintstone also waxed euphoric for a moment about the reuniting of the father, Juan Miguel, with his son, Elian.

Clintstone, the non-stop talking president would not take a question and walked off after reading his euphoric statement to the sketchily assembled press.

Fatherhood? Didn't president Clintstone's original father desert the household when Billy was a baby. And of the Clintstone his mother married, weren't we told that he was a drunken wife and child beater?

How many times did candidate Clintstone recount the story of how he, Clintstone, jumped up against his drunken step-dad when he was big enough and old enough, and told the drunked up step-father not to ever hit his mother or brother again.

Fatherhood? Clintstone? Ask Monica Lewinsky's father about the mysogenist Clintstone's sense of fatherhood.

The very morning Elian was seized at gunpoint, National Public Radio reported that Fidel held a rally with a 100,000 people - that very Saturday morning - and euphoric Fidel let it slip to his audience that he, Fidel, the Maximum Leader, had a cell phone call from Juan Miguel the day before, and that Juan Miguel said to Fidel that if the United States government did not go in and retrieve his son, that he, Juan Miguel, was going to hop a plane to Miami, on Sunday, or Monday the latest - and go to Miami to get his son Elian all by himself.

The press fails to investigate whether or not Juan Miguel actually booked himself a flight to Miami. The press doesn't want to know about these matters, sea know evil and all of that.

The lawyer for Juan Miguel, the much touted Greg Craig remarked, in a press interview, weeks later, that they had to go in to get the kid when they did.

Of course the fascists had to go in and snatch the kid, from their fascist point of view! At all costs this family had to be kept separated. Had Juan Miguel hopped a plane and gone to Miami, by the time Juan Miguel reached the street where his family and step-mothered son were living, there would have been a hundred thousand Cuban nationals in the street, throwing garlands of flowers on his path.

Juan Miguel would have gone into the house. Then the family inside, away from the press, would have hollered at each other, and then hugged and cried, and then sat down to eat Dominoes pizza, or rice and beans, while planning their next steps together, as a family, besides discussing all the options on retrieving the two grandmothers from Fidel Castro's grasp.

Clintstone could not allow that scenario to evolve at any cost, because Fidel would have seen it as a double cross, and it was Fidel who, after all, for the first time in years, was calling all the shots.

Therefore, in the middle of the night, with only a few minutes from completing the Elian transfer negotiations, the order was given and Reno's SS broke down the doors like fascist SS storm troopers in the Warsaw ghetto, looking this time around to round up just one refugee Elian instead of all the ghetto billeted Jews.

It turns out Clinton's fascist Justice Dept. planned all along to seize Elian Gonzalas the way they did, so their transfer negotiations were sham from the start and meant only to deceive Elian's Miami family.

Why?

Clintstone could not chance that Juan Miguel was going to hop a cab to the airport that day or the next and fly to Miami, family values, togetherness and all of that. Fidel would have been really piqued.

But why should Clintstone care a whit about Fidel?

Because Juan Miguels flight to Miami would have cancelled the transfer of his son Elian, and chance Fidel might have then carried out his back water threat, which was hardly to send boatloads of Cuban gangsters and mentally unstable Cubans to our shores, as the press speculated.

Fidel had something else in hand and mind, tape at 11 PM, as they say.

Solomon muses on, for all to listen in, for the truth shall unfold as to what Fidel held against our Clintstone, just as the truth unfolded for King Solomon centuries ago about the two would-be mothers in his court, so the truth shall unfold and be told world vid herewith.

When Juan Miguel arrived in America, and someone had an opportunity to inteview him, they reported that Juan Miguel seemed so sad. Of course! Juan Miguel didn't want to come to America and retrieve his son. With his son growing up in freedom he, Juan Miguel would have been guaranteed a foot hold in America, regardless of INS.

We live in a sea of information, and tend to forget. Dan Rather interviewed Juan Miguel for CBS. Juan Miguel said in that interview he wanted Elian to grow up and make a difference in the world. In Cuba? In Cuba there isn't any future world. The only diff rinse is party membership or life as a slovenly laborer, unless you are a comely young girl, and then you are qualified as a street corner whore, viginity, unbridled youth and all of that.

Dan Rather asked Juan Miguel point blank in the interview, did he, Juan Miguel ever strike Elian. Juan Miguel answers rhetorically, "what father has not had to discipline their son?" In fact lots of fathers have never had to "discipline" their sons.

Juan Miguel cannot look Dan Rather in the eye. Juan miguel prefaces his answers to Rather's key child and wife abuse questions with, "To be honest with you..."

Solomon muses: Anytime someone prefaces an answer to a quest yin with, "To be honest with you," at the very least they are prone to lie as a general rule of thumb, and they want to distinguish, that in this instance they are not lying, though they very well may be lying through their teeth as they speak, and knowing they are lying and liars at heart, they want to cover up.

Juan Miguel could not pass a lie detector test to save his life on the issue of his striking both Elian, and Elizabeth Brotons. Of course he smacked the kid around when he was upset, when he was fighting with Elizabeth Brotons before he went and married the reformed street corner girl, Nursie, and made her an honest woman, for which his street corner girl, Nursie would be eternally grateful to Juan Miguel and never question him when he failed to come home right after work.

When Juan Miguel came to America he brought his young wife, Nursie, with their new born child. She hardly smiled. Then the government delivered Elian to Juan Miguel, and she smiled only posing for the still shot cameras, counting the days until she could get back to her life in Cuba.

In the first posed still shot, the 21 year old Nursie mom is looking at her husband, Juan Miguel. In the 2nd still shot released to the press, her eyes are on her own new born, Elian's half brother. It is only in the third picture Greg Craig released that Nursie gets it right looking lovingly at Elian.

The public was told Juan Miguels new wife was 21 years old, with a six year old love child son left behind with relatives in Cuba. Then the press bumped Nursie's age to 23. Six from 23 makes her seventeen years old when she first gave birth. Or was Nursie really only a fifteen year old mother.

And what of her 200 peso street corner love child back in Cuba. Was is the kid's biological father an African diplomat, or a long gone Canadian tourist?

The press fails to examine these matters. The press corp belongs to our maximum el presidente. The normalcy of Juan Miguel's Cuban family life cannot be challenged. The issue is off limits because he the kid is a pawn and belongs to Fidel.

Instead the press pontificates maybe there is a backwater deal to change our relations with Cuba, so Clintstone can have as his legacy normalized relations with the Cuban government, but this idea, like a sea worn inner tube, won't hold water, and barely holds air, and the Elian effect is actually, in the long run, going to set our relations with Cuba back twenty years.

Fidel's embassy people began immediately, here in America, to reprogram Elian for a communistic, Stalinist society on their island in the sun, and this was with the blessings and cooperation of the Clintstone administration.

Why?

When they moved Elian closer to Washington, from the heavily guarded Wyle estate, someone in the press notes that Elian's motorcade is larger than that accorded to any one of our president's Cabinet Officers, like our Secretary of State.

Why? King Solomon appears to digress, but it shall all be made clear.

The father, Juan Miguel, is at first silent when Elian is saved at sea. Upon interview, in Cuba, he says what many believe Fidel tells him to say: That he, Juan Miguel, wants his kid back in Cuba, instead of life with a loving future in America.

Finally, after months of silence from Cuba, Elian's grandmothers come to America, but not Elian's father, Juan Miguel. The grandmothers are invited to dinner at their Miami relative's house, but they never show up, and the food prepared grows cold on the table.

Instead, the grandmothers, with an entourage of Cuban diplomats, go to New York city, and to Washington, D.C., there to lobby congress and our government for the return of their grandchild to Cuba, but they fail to visit their Miami relatives.

How could the grandmothers come to America and fail to visit their relatives? Why? Because both of the governments want to keep both sides of Elian's extended family permanently separated from each other.

Why?

King Solomon muses: How could it be in our interest as a free people to keep this family apart and ship Elian back to Cuba? Never mind Elian's feelings about citizenship because he is only six. But could any of this charade be in either of the families' best interest?

What will Juan Miguel get for his part in this? Another color television set? Is there any place he can go to show off his fresh wardrobe of Amani suits and Gap shirts?

A meeting of the grandmothers with their famous grandson, Elian Gonzalas is arranged at Sister Jean's house. Sister Jean is a Catholic nun who is also the president of a small Catholic university in Miami. Before the meeting Sister Jean is quoted as supporting the return of Elian to Cuba, to live with his surviving parent father, Juan Miguel.

But when the grandmothers are at Sister Jean's residence, and with their grandson, Elian, Sister Jean cannot but see the fear in both of the granmother's faces as they are also surrounded by Fidel's secret police, posing as diplomats, who are on cell phones with Fidel in Cuba nearly every minute, as Fidel is micro-managing everything, and there are other matters before Sister Jean's eyes that she cannot deny.

The press is waiting outside. Sister Jean publicly expresses her dramatic change of heart. She now believes that Elian should stay here in America.

One of the grandmothers, in fact, Juan Miguel's mother, steps up to the microphones set up by the press. She states in Spanish, and is translated by an overvoice: "I don't know what is wrong. I kissed Elian on the mouth, and bit his tongue. But I was only playing. Then I unzipped his pants and told him, 'my how big you have grown.' "

Solomon privately muses, maybe it's a cultural thing with these Cubans, but my grandmother never kissed me on the mouth, or bit my tongue, or inspected my nakedness, or made any exclamations about my genitals, even after my grandfather performed the holy briss, when he circumsized me at the hospital, or when my grandmother very occasionally helped my mother change my diapers, that when I was in swaddling clothes.

I recollect my grandmother instead always muttered under her breath or told me outright that I was a momser.

This my grandmother said because I always took my grandfathers side when ever she was complaining about his smoking Lucky Strikes or spending money on beautiful english bone china. But that is another story, far removed from this tale of the miracle kid, Elian Gonzalas, at hand.

Solomon muses privately, I recollect everything of consequence from the moment I was born. At age four I insisted to my mother that I would bathe myself and when my mother came into the bathroom to inspect the water, and to check the worn enamel sides of the tub, for a ring of dirt, indicating I had actually washed myself instead of playing with my toy duck and two boats, I covered myself.

I used the wash cloth to cover my nakedness, and would not let my mother have that wash cloth to wash my back, insisting without a splash that she get another wash cloth for my back.

This is normal behavior for any four year old male, who by the age of four demands his own space. Such digress is not digress.

In the midst of the Elian Gonzalas saga, a magazine writer goes to Cuba to interview everyone who was a friend of both Elizabeth Brotans and Juan Miguel's, to uncover their "true" story, which to this day remains untold.

The quest yin is: was the magazine editor prompted to assign the story by someone in the government, like president Clintstone, or was the magazine looking to simply cash in on Elizabeth Broton's death to sell magazines? Both.

The American people were shown, in an orchestrated pulp and talking head televised daily multi-channel display that Juan Miguel and Elizabeth Brotons knew each other for twenty years. Thay tried to have a baby, after they were married, but each time she was pregnant, Elizabeth Brotons miscarried. Then she divorced Juan Miguel, supposedly because of all the miscairrages.

Then the two of them, Elizabeth and Juan Miguel, friends since childhood, stayed together under the same roof, the housing situation in Castro's Cuba being what it is.

So it was that Elizabeth Brotons, Juan Miguel's childhood sweetheart got pregnant again, and this time carried her baby to full term, and bore Juan Miguel a son. But she refused to remarry Juan Miguel, though she was his childhood sweetheart.

Juan Miguel was and is a womanizer. He ran around with other women, and when he came home late, with lipstick on his clothing, and Elizabeth hollered, he hit her. Then he would beg forgiveness for his infidelity, and his having beat her, that a textbook part of his guilt trip, and this was a pattern Elizabeth Brotons decided she could not live with, so she refused to remarry Juan Miguel, though life unmarried with a child out of wedlock is hardship in Cuba, as it is also hardship in many other countries in the world.

The magazine reporter tells us Elian's mother, Elizabeth Brotons, was not a sophisticated woman. That she was content to live in the small town where she was born and had never even been to Havana, or any other Cuban town, other than the town nearby to where she was born and raised.

We are told she left Cuba, because she fell in love with another man, who had left her behind for America, and she couldn't bear living without the new boyfriend at her side; and that her tragic death was a love story.

Solomon muses: This love story take is a lot of crap. But it is true that another man did fall in love with Elizabeth Brotons, as her inner beauty and spirit were pure and very attractive.

Elizabeth Brotons worked hard for 12 hours a day, as a maid cleaning rooms in a hotel downtown. When Elian finished school he would go over to his father's house, and then next door to his grandmother's house, waiting for his mother to come get him every night after she finished work.

One night, on the walk back to their meager apartment, Elian told his mother, "Gramma was playing with my pee pee today. (Again)."

Elizabeth Brotons was not a sophisticated woman. She had never studied psychology 101, but she knew that as long as she stayed there, in Cuba, and her baby Elian was around the grandmother, that Elian would grow up to be another Juan Miguel, with Juan Miguel's emotional baggage, a next generation unfaithful womanizer with the same set of deep seated emotional problems.

So that is why Elizabeth Brotons called the ex-boyfriend in America and said to him that she had changed her mind and he should come get her. The only way she could see to get away from the child abusing grandmother was to leave the island of Cuba altogether. There wasn't anything else she could do! Juan Miguel's mother's abuse of her grandchild Elian - that was the reason Elizabeth Brotons decided to escape Cuba for America - to escape the child abusing grandmother!

Not for political freedom did she leave so much as a better life and safety from abuse for her Elian. That is why she left Cuba in an unseaworthy boat.

We know that when Elian is taken back to Cuba, as he is there already, that Juan Miguel, and his fresh wife, Nursie, and her six year old 200 peso love child from an encounter on a street corner in Havana with, as noted above, we are not sure, an African diplomat, or Canadian tourist, that all are going to be eventually living together in a big beautiful house ordinarily reserved for diplomats, and they will be surrounded by Fidel's stalinist psychologists, etc.

At least, this is what we were led to believe by the combined Cuban and White House media machines.

This is not to program Elian for a miserable life in communist Cuba. Given enough ritalin and scopalamine laced orange juice for breakfast, the Stalinists will wipe out the visions of Disneyland and Maryslysis that course through Elian's memo re bank.

The Cuban psychologists will be there, though we won't see them on TV, to counsel Juan Miguel, because they also saw the grandmother at the press conference, and they realize why and how Juan Miguel became the abusive, prone to violence womanizing control freak that he is.

So when Elian told his mother about the grandmother playing again with his pee pee, Elizabeth Brotons decided, on the spot, to leave, and told Elian as much, that they were going to America, and not to tell a soul.

Then she contacted her ex-boyfriend, which could all be researched, were there only an editor with enough intestinal fortitude to assign the uncovering of this true story, and Elizabeth Brotons told her departed boy friend she had decided finally she wanted to come to America to be with him.

The boyfriend was infatuated, and imagined himself in "love" with Elizabeth Brotons, and he had been working hard and saving every spare nickel from his wages. Immediately he bought a rubber boat with a brand new out board motor and went back to Cuba, to bring Elizabeth and Elian back with him to America.

The Cuban navy spotted the returning boyfriend, seized his boat, arrested him for a month, and then let him go. He got hold of another boat, though it was not sea worthy, and along with Elian and his parents, and cousins, and a couple paying customers, left Cuba for America.

The motor was so bad they had to turn around and come back. Another child on the boat was left behind because they feared the boat would not make the trip. But Elizabeth Brotons was determined to get her Elian out of Cuba, and would not leave him behind, as that was the reason she was leaving Cuba, to protect Elian, not so much to live in freedom which she was not sophisticated enough to appreciate, but to protect Elian from an abusive situation that left unsolved would have stilted and ruined her Elian's life.

Going to America was the only way to get Elian away from his abusive grandmother. That is and was the reason why Elizabeth Brotons left Cuba.

For Elian, a six year old, his mother isn't dead. She is lost. Lost at sea. As the ocean took her, with her last words she told the child she loved so much, "You will be all right. Stay on the inner tube and you will get to America. In the heavy seas Elian couldn't do anything but hang on to the inner tube for life.

He was not traumatized from losing his mother at sea, for she is only lost, and in his mind, what is lost can be found, because that is the way God planned it. He believes he will see his mother again regardless what they say. He is six years old.

Elian was removed from his loving Miami family, wrenched from those who love him, and traumatized by Janet Reno's storm troops, during Passover, a Holy time, this a plan of God's, to test the Jews, who in the backs of their minds might just begin to see their own complacency and understand our national affliction. For the Jews, never again means never again. At least it is supposed to mean, "never again."

King Solomon, the mystical poet prophet muses on: In the Florida straights, above there is a standing platoon of angels, with only good tiding for all of the souls as the souls depart their water logged bodies, with a commander angel amongst them sometimes advising the departing souls they will only be in heaven until the next cloud burst, then back into the sea to be eaten by a fish at the bottom of the food chain, and the best amongst them could even move up the food chain and get to be resident souls of a dolphin with a long dolphin life.

These angel guardians of the heavenly migration are waiting today for Elian Gonzalas to return to them, because Elian has to cross their troubled sea again.

What will happen to Elian Gonzalas upon his return to Cuba, after the parades and the hoopla, after living with the 24 / 7 Cuban psychologists who will be primarily counseling Juan Miguel, as Elian's counsel will be more to a juice glass full of ritalin and scopalamine, or whatever they come up with to shock wave the capitalist America from his memory, for it is Juan Miguel the Cuban psychologists are as much if not more concerned about in this matter, as the Gonzalas family has to be made whole for the press.

They need to be sure it is safe to leave the kid with his family in Cuba, and his father, Juan Miguel, and Fidel is going to want to see Elian every few months besides, because an important religeous group in Cuba also told Fidel this kid could be important, and Fidel will also want to display his prized commie youth to members of the international press.

Juan Miguel will respond to the therapy he never would have asked for on his own. He will tell the psychologists exactly what they want to hear, because he wants to return to his house and his life as a bigger fish in the little pond where he was raised. Getting babes to do his bidding in the bars will be a piece of cake after the dust settles.

So down the road the parade dust will settle, and Elian will be returned to his Cuban family and Juan Miguel will have had a bad day at his job, with a thousand people all day long saying, "You are Juan Miguel You are Juan Miguel I read it in the tabloid you beat your wife.

And Elian will be having a bad day playing with his obnoxious six year old step brother, and Nursie, the mother of Elian's half brother will be having a bad day with her terrible 2 yr. old, and then when Juan Miguel comes home, if he comes home, she has to compete with Elian for Juan Miguel's attention, so when Juan Miguel comes home amd Nursie rags him out that Elian was a bad kid and then the father and the son have words, and Elian will say, "I am going back to America because I love my great uncle and Marysleysis." And after all that ritalin and scopalamine, that will be it.

We know from yards of testimony in thousands of family courts that all the Elians from first mairrages get short shrift with their step mothers or fathers because of new children besides other off spring from the previous mairrages.

In spite of Fidel practically looking over his shoulder, Juan Miguel will lose it when Elian answers back, "I'm going to America."

We are told that when Juan Miguel received the news that his first wife, Elizabeth Brotons died at sea, he was, as Prince Charles upon the death of Princess Diana, devastated. Elizabeth Brotons was the love of his life. In Elian's eyes Juan Miguel sees her soul, as the eyes window the soul, and still shots of Elian and Juan Miguel taken in America capture that image.

Juan Miguel will strike out at Elian, and with each smashing blow, "You killed your mother," slap, "You killed your mother," slap, "Had you refused to get on that crummy boat she would not have left Cuba." Slap. "Your mother would be alive today but she is dead because of you, Elian. You killed your mother. You killed your mother, and you deserve what you are getting." Slap.

That is the fate the Clintstone pawn, Janet Reno gave to the miracle child, Elian Gonzalas.

But when the resilient Elian goes outside, every day, before he looks to the clouds, the angels above will gather all the souls in the passing clouds to shape up as a sailing boat with a giant sail pushing the whole cloud along in the breeze. Every day the angels will repeat for Elian a ship in the sea of clouds for sight, sometimes only puffs in their midst, but every day for Elian to see.

Elian will keep his own counsel, as he did before, as young as he is, and he will slowly plan to leave again. He made it once. The dolphins protected him. Why not again?

And what of his mother, Elizabeth Brotons. Elizabeth Brotons has standing with God in heaven. She has every right to ask the lady spirit who protected her Elian, or the unsayable Master of the Universe himself, that she is entitled to be with her son, Elian, as long as his life has become such a hell on the earth. She has that right to ask, which most souls don't! Were you Elizabeth Brotons in heaven would you not ask God for this special dispensation?

King Solomon muses: Certainly God, using the kid anyway for his own unrevealed master lesson plan, certainly God would have to respond to the questing soul of Elizabeth Brotons, especially in the event the spirit lady of the most high told Elizabeth to ask God precicely at a certain time during Rabbi Gurari's First Passover Sedar, when the lowly Chasidic Holy Man, as it happens, he being one of the world's 37 Holy Men, as there are at all times on the earth, 36 Holy Men, plus One Extra Special Holy Man living amongst us, whether revealed or unrevealed to themselves, or us, or not, as it is written in the Book Without a Cover, the original oral Kabbala, given to the Rabbis by Moses, there are at all times 36 plus One, so when the holy Rabbi Gurari announces to his flock of students, "Anyone who needs to ask Ha Shem anything do it right now outside, and Ha Shem is obligated to grant your request," at that moment Elizabeth Brotons will get her own request into the mix when God is obligated to honor all requests, as this mystical moment during the Passover service is the truth behind the tale of Alladin and his lamp that has inspired so much humor over the centuries.

We can safely assume Elizabeth Brotons has already asked God to return her Elian to her, without waiting for a mystical moment in next year's Passover meal, as is her special right, because her kid is more than special to her. Elian Gonzalas has style, an individuality that will not be corrupted regardless how much scopalamine the stalinist psychologistas dump down his throat.

So that is the guaranteed fate that awaited Elian in Cuba. Scopalamine for breakfast. But Elian will survive to make the trip to America again. His mother calls out to him every day from the passing clouds above the open sea.

As it is stated above, here is what we, the American people should have done, so the world, including Fidel, would have rejoiced: Elian should have stayed in America, in the land of milk and honey, in freedom, within sight of where his mother died, bringing him.

Juan Miguel, his father should have been given a state of the art high speed G-4, or imac macintosh computer, with paid for internet connection, by us, and video telephony software. Elian, the same exact machine, both with 24 / 7 connection.

The father and son could have been with each other, every day, as the digital universe, a giant blessing from God, reconstitutes everything, especially relationships between people at opposite ends of planet, or on opposite sides of the river Jordan.

The father, Juan Miguel, a Cuban communist, is in charge of raising his son. This, Juan Miguel cannot do with Elian in Cuba with him, as the Cuban constitution plainly states that Fidel Castro is the father of all the Cuban children, and the kid, as was recently reported in The Wall Street Gurgle, has already been removed from his father for purposes of retransition to communist Cuban life.

So when the great uncle Lazaro would have reported to Juan Miguel that Elian snatched a dollar from the table, or from Maryslysis' dresser, and ran outside to get an ice cream before dinner, it would have been for Juan Miguel to have said, give him three potches on his tushy and send him to bed without desert.

Every night, Juan Miguel, from Cuba, his extended Miami family online and with him, could have taken turns with Maryslysis reading Elian a bed time story. Monday night could have been in english, by Maryselysis, the earthly mother Elian adopted on sight, with his mother's approval in heaven, where she, Elizabeth Brotons has standing with God.

So Maryselysis would have read "The Three Bears and the Chicken Soup," (my mother's version), or The Three Bears and the Rice and Beans, which is certainly acceptable and, one imagines, Reno approved.

Tuesday night would have been Juan Miguel's turn, in spanish. He could have retold the story of "Little Red Riding Fidel-hood."

Elian Gonzalas is a cymbol of liberty, though today a crushed cymbol, for every third world kid, and all the third world's people. He fufilled our belief in, "Give me your tired and your poor," regardless of court room non-rulings on the ever shifting INS regulations.

Elian would have had the best of all possible worlds. He would have seen his father every day, which he doesn't today, in Cuba, and Juan Miguel, his son; and the father would have had a toe hold in America, free to come here whenever he was ready. Done right, Fidel would not have dared to harm Elian's grandmothers.

The republican congress could have moved immediately to pass The Elian Gonzalas Immigration Act, inspite of the narrow minded racist coalition of black democrats against it.

This proposed act of congress could award, would have awarded citizenship to any kid, Haitian, Korean, Chinese, it doesn't matter really, any kid, age 7 or younger, who lands, without supervision on our soil, or is plucked from the sea within a day fisherman's ride off the United States coast.

What a great act of our congress. All of the kids who qualified would have grown up here in America to be great citizens. Super ponzi helpers to pay for your social security.

"Give me your tired and your poor," not some rigid, heavy handed INS bureaucracy, is what America is supposed to be all about. The issue of Elian Gonzalas, again, as it was for King Solomon, was and is jurisdiction. The INS did not have jurisdiction, only the fascist Clintstone.

We know from family courts, whenever a kid is raised where one of the parents is a step father or mother, and the parents have another child, together, it is not uncommon the first born, from an earlier mairrage, gets short shrift from the step parent.

Juan Miguel's mother stated, on our television, here in America, that when she was visiting Elian, she kissed him on the mouth and bit his tongue. She said she was only "playing" when she proceeded to unzip his pants, inspect his genitals and proclaim, "my how big you have grown."

Maybe as it is written above, it's a cultural thing, which it is not!. Surely one night when Elian's mother picked him up at the grandmother's house, on the way home, Elian told his mother, "Gramma was playing with my pee pee today, and the mother thought, "enough of this, we are going to America, as soon as I can find a boat." We don't know, but we certainly imagine so. It was for a seasoned family court, to get at the bottom of this, not the see-no-evil INS.

But the fascist INS didn't want to get to the bottom of this, or let the bottom be gotton to in a family court. Why?

For the answer to this Elian case, and so much more besides, we have to return to Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1989.

It was reported years ago, that for a period of months, two or three times a week, Governor Clintstone ran over to Charlie Yah Lin Trie's restaurant for lunch.

Examine a file photograph of Charlie Yah Lin Trie. Does this guy look like he would be comfortable standing over a wok, or a steaming vegetable pot?

And when the Governor of the State of Arkansas raced over to Charlie's Chinese restaurant for lunch, did he sit at the counter, or at a table amongst the secretaries and downtown professionals?

Or did Governor Clintstone dine in the secluded Riady inspired banquet room, designed for governors and the like?

And when Clintstone was in the secluded banquet room, who waited on him? Could the waitperson have been famous female waitress Kim Soo?

And what did famous waitress Kim Soo serve Clintstone besides lunch? They call it a "nooner."

And was the secluded banquet room rigged with three separate hidden video cam corders focused on one particular secluded booth where Clintstone had his "nooner, so the surrepticious tapes are irrevocable - it's Clintstone and you can read Charlie Yah Lin Trie's lunch brunch menu on the table?

This explains the little gardener who was an employee of the Riady's, coming to the White House for a coffee, and telling Clintstone as Clintstone walked around the room shaking hands, "The Riadys sent me."

Does the gardener's message translate, the missle technology transfer has to happen sooner rather than later, else the world will see your "nooner?"

Do the tapes of waitress Kim Soo serving Clintstone lunch explain the transfer of John Huang from one department to another so with top security clearance Huang could facilitate the missle technology transfer?

Do the tapes explain why, in previous years, the Loral group, who had the missle technology always gave a million soft dollars to the democratic party but the year of the missle tech transfer they only gave a half million dollars, because the transfer was going to take place regardless, so they had to cover their tails, for appearance's sake?

The last thing Charlie Yah Lin Trie said to president elect Clintstone, as Clintstone was on his way to Washington was, "Mr. President. You remember waitress Kim Soo? She got picture. Video picture."

Does this help explain how a restauranteur in downtown Little Rock became a major democratic political party fundraiser, with many visits to the white House and photo ops with the president Clintstone so Charlie Yah lin Trie could promote himself as an entrepreneur with connections?

more So lets cut to the banq already, with a solution, and satisfactorily solve our constitutional issue of mass media speech, as a whole people, without the congress, courts, or bureaucracies, lest our big buck franchise slips away to shore up someone else's bank. Sometimes the most seemingly complicated of constitutional issues are not so complicated after all!

Brian Lamb's recently, (1994) reality checked C-Span, is our veddy best prospect for America's primary prime time speech avenue, at least, the most likely.

C-Span surely deserves to reap what they've been lately sewing, and deserves what they've been getting, which is booted off the air at many cable stations, which is fair enough for me, as we, the people deserve a bigger bang than Brian Lamb's C-Span, and so much more than C-Span's fascist con.

Even adjectified, you don't like that "F" word, yet it occurs and reappears for such accurate reason.

Flatly, C-Span sits above our laws, cutting a wide swath without any broadcast, or cable cast license. Oh! theirs is the broadest of license, which is none whatsoever, none of the above, not beholden at all to any of our broadcast laws.

America's 24 / 7 "Network of Political Record," as the soft over voice claims, is also, independently, comptroller of those records, too.

But whose "Political Record" is it, dear reader ship mates? Their records, or ours? Clearly, C-Span doesn't have any 315 statutory obligations to candidates, requiring C-span to give them e quill time, upon request, but shouldn't they be required to give some time, for fairness, and politic balance?

The own le prob limb with this idea of C-Span giving any time, e quill, or otherwise, upon request, is this measure runs cross purpose to the beltway's fascistic control freak we-know-better culture and mentality, in which the C-Span is clearly anchored.

C-Span's non-profit programming mission is uninterrupted Congress, and when Congress isn't in session, C-Span creates unmitigated, uncensored, end-to-end vid records of mediafied commentators, generally in the form of paneled beltway news events.

Excluding gravel-to-grovel in both Houses of Congress, O'Slippery Span's official mission excuse, C-Span solely determines what C-span covers, campaign speeches and all the rest, and therefore C-span's belt is censoring everything.

Instead of raw ideas, from a candidate's mouth, C-Span shells out dull process, and campaign trivia, last seen, volunteers for Senator Bradley were being trailed by C-Span's cameras, walking down a street, knocking on random doors.

This bill of fair on the Netwurk of Political Wreckurd, whilst the "other" candidates are willfully ignored regardless who they are, or how compelling their issues facing us, are, or why they are standing for our public offices in the first place, is at least, fascistic. Ahh, that disturbing "F" word again, popping up from my gut thesaurus.

You, the candidate cannot request time to come on and make a live speech on C-Span's channels for free, unless you are in the habit of mailing out junk mail, because you don't have any right to appear on C-span unless you are invited by the C-Span to appear.

You are absent any access rights with C-Span to even make such a request to deliver an unmitigated, uninterrupted live speech on behalf of your candidacy. Your access-to-cable rights were vacated, years ago by the FCC.

And what arbitrary bar does C-Span employ, they of course deciding for you, when rejecting those candidates they like to pretend are not relevant for viewing, your fare a bunch of weekend volunteers in a dead campaign passing out brochures? Where is C-Span's threshold for speech written down? As in all things arbitrarily fascist, the fascist's bar adjusts for the flow, and isn't writ down anywhere.

C-Span decides with their own rule of thumb, and censors potential appearances with a heavy hand. Could there be any reason for the 24 / 7 cable industry owned public political Tv network to reject any 312(a)(7) request for access from any candidate, beyond Brian Lamb's C-Span filter sitting above our laws, unlicensed, and therefore, beholden not to any statutory requirements, or lickedy-split fascistic agency review?

According to the Supreme Court, regardless of license held, there aren't any reasons for rejecting the affirmative right of a reasonable request for mass media access, by a legally qualified candidate. There aren't.

There are indeed compelling reasons for the "The Netwurk of Political Record" to instead, prize every tendered request they get for access, without the Congress fine printing any fresh statutes; but actual respect for the Constitution and our Bill of Rights is not held, or a governing principal, or controlling authority at C-Span, nor are there any statutory cable requirements actively, or inactively protecting our rights upheld, so when some viewer calls and asks, "Why can't we see these candidates sitting down, instead of just walking around, and shaking hands with voters on the trail," C-Span's shoddy reply, in elections past, ran thus, "We can't get these candidates to sit down for an interview, with questions from you, because of their schedules," leaving out Brian Lamb's knee jerk C-Span "company" policy: a pre-determined trashing of all requests from any of those other candidates, the odd few requests they get, unless the request is beltway connected.

I canceled my cable in '95. I needed to get away from watching C-Span's fascistic manipulation. Maybe they've gone and changed formats, soft ad over voices and their, "Network of Politi