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HOW THE NRA HOODWINKED AMERICA

By Shaun Costello

Somewhere along the way, the National Rifle Association, which is nothing more than a lobbying entity representing the firearms industry, has positioned itself as an organization dedicated to preserving the freedoms of each and every American citizen. This extraordinary advertising coup was achieved by enlisting Hollywood actors like Ronald Reagan and Charlton Heston to espouse

the importance of the firearm as an integral element in America’s history, and in every American’s heritage. America’s freedom from the tyranny of British rule was achieved by means of the gun, claims the NRA, therefore freedom itself, the birthright of every American, can only be maintained by the gun. Early on, the NRA ingratiated itself with alleged patriotic organizations like the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), the American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and any and every right wing political entity they could penetrate. Over the years, with careful image control, and effective

advertising, the NRA has positioned itself as the protector of America’s Freedom, and an integral element in the maintenance of democratic rule, as created by America’s founding fathers. The objective of this image campaign was to equate the NRA with all things patriotic, so that the average American would think of the NRA, right up there with the Bill of Rights, The Declaration of Independence, The Boston Tea Party, George Washington, the flag, and Mom’s apple pie.
And it worked. Now that the NRA, which in reality was simply a lobby group for a multi-billion dollar industry, had woven its way into the fabric of patriotic America’s tapestry, its next move was to begin donating to key political campaigns, creating a network of obligated politicians across the country who would vote pro-gun, regardless of their prior, or actual beliefs.

The word was out now for every elected official, regardless of political affiliation. Want to keep your job? Vote pro-gun.
With political power in their grasp, the NRA would control all legislation that might effect or regulate the firearms industry, which has annual revenues exceeding eleven billion dollars. Through fear tactics, and the patriotic bully pulpit, the NRA’s base expanded, and their power became unchallengeable. But suddenly, America woke up. The recent tragic events in Newtown Connecticut have changed everything. A deranged kid with his mother’s legally bought, .223 Caliber military assault rifle, slaughtered 20 little children in their classrooms, 6 teachers who died protecting their kids, his mother, and finally himself. A catastrophe of such

magnitude that America has been shocked into a reality that might finally put a stop to unregulated manufacture and sale of assault weapons, and the NRA’s strangle hold on the political machinery that allowed those weapons to find their way into the hands of killers.
After a week’s silence, Wayne LaPierre, the President of the NRA, called a news conference this afternoon, finally expressing the NRA’s response to the tragedy in Newtown. His words were shocking, but not surprising. In keeping with the NRA’s policy of ever-expanding gun sales, LaPierre suggested arming teachers and school administrators. Mr. LaPierre stood there at the microphone and said, “The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.” So, the NRA-supported firearms industry will supply both the good guys and the bad guys with more guns, and they can shoot it out.

Not this time. America seems finally to have awakened to the NRA’s charade of patriotic hyperbole and congressional manipulation. Twenty kids are dead. Enough. The President seems to have awakened as well, and even some Republican Congressmen are beginning to understand the need for more stringent gun regulation. Will it happen? I hope so. Will Americans finally understand that the Second Amendment, which the NRA successfully tattooed on the American psyche as giving anyone the right to unlimited and unregulated gun ownership, is an archaic instrument, used by the paranoid to assuage their fears and insecurities? I can only hope.

The NRA is not what it claims to be. They’re the playground bully, threatening the weaker kids and stealing their lunch money. Once America begins to understand this simple fact, and politicians stop cowering in fear that their re-election funding will dry up, maybe we’ll stop shooting each other. After all, no playground bully is anywhere near as tough as he thinks. He’s only what you believe he is. Nothing more.

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© 2012 Shaun Costello

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Posted by shauncostello | December 21, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: .223 Caliber assault rifle, Adam Lanza, AR15 Assault Rifle, Assault rifles, Assault weapons, Charlton Heston, Congress and the NRA, Firearms Industry, Gun Regulation, Gun violence, Guns, Killing kids, Newtown, NRA, President Obama, Schoolroom slaughter, Tragedy in small town, Wayne LaPierre | 16 Comments

JACK’S CHRISTMAS BLAST

“Mommy, Santa’s asleep on the kitchen floor”
By Shaun Costello

Christmas in the Forest Hills Gardens was my favorite time of year. A great deal of attention was paid by Gardens residents to make sure that the little hamlet was as adorable as was intended by the designers who created it. The

Gardens Corporation spent a hefty portion of its annual budget making sure that every lamp post, every pine and spruce, even the stop signs were appropriately adorned and decorated to say “Merry Christmas” to each and every passer by. There was a full scale Nativity Scene with a stable, and life size statues of the participants, as well as enormous stuffed sheep and goats. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the older kids would rearrange the juxtaposition of the scene’s characters to suggest that the Magi were doing something unnatural

with the sheep, but the following morning the Gardens Corporation’s handyman would put things right, and Yuletide spirit would resume, uninterrupted.
The houses were elaborately decorated with lights, and wreaths, and holly, with candles in the windows, and Santa’s sleds on the rooftops. There was a team of judges who traveled about the community, making notes on the quality of decorations, and a prize was awarded to the best dressed home on Christmas night right in the middle of Station Square, the epicenter of the community. There was a rumor, that the judges could be bribed with martinis, so the validity of the prize was in always in question.

On Christmas Eve the grown ups had lots of parties, and the Gardens Corporation kept track of where they were so that a list of addresses could be given to the Gardens Carolers, who would sing their versions of “Silent Night”, and “We Three Kings of Orient Are”, at each and every gathering, after which they would be rewarded with drams of eggnog and cognac and thus fortified, move on to the next venue. The streets in the little hamlet were crowded with revelers, drinks in hand, arm in arm, singing and laughing, as they staggered from party to party, hell bent on the proper celebration of the birth of the Christ child. Enormous consumption of alcohol seemed to be an integral element in the festivities.

Each Christmas Eve the Gardens Corporation “conscripted” a group of Santa’s from among the Gardens’ teenage population. They were dressed in Santa outfits, given a list of addresses complete with the names of the children in residence, and a bag of gifts, one for each child on the list. This event was enormously popular with the children of the community, who got a visit from their very own Santa, who handed them a gift with their very own name on it. On this particular Christmas, my friend Bill Beggs’ older brother Jack was to take his first tour as Santa, and Bill’s friends, me included, went over to the Beggs’

house to give Jack pointers on his Santa performance, and tease him as much as he would allow. Jack Beggs was an unassuming, engaging, friendly kid and Bill’s friends all liked him. He was the only teenager in the community who treated us like humans.
There was a tradition at the Gardens Corporation office on every Christmas Eve, that involved giving each Santa a shot of brandy to ward off the cold, along with a Merry Christmas toast before the eager team of teenage Santa’s began their rounds of gift giving. Jack was fourteen, and had never had a shot of brandy before, but the fiery liquid was a welcome fortification against the cold, not to mention his nervousness at the possibility of giving the wrong presents to children whose names he might forget. Properly imbibed, Jack began his rounds.

Mr. and Mrs. Beggs were out doing the party circuit, so Bill answered the phone when it rang about two hours later. “Look Beggs, this is Al Relyea down at the Gardens office. I just got an angry phone call from Doctor Fallon. I guess you know that your son Jack is a Santa this year. Anyway, he evidently got his hands on a bottle of hooch, and got himself plastered. He passed out on Fallon’s kitchen floor and threw up all over the place. The Doc’s kids are hysterical, and he’s threatening to sue the Gardens Corporation for something called “loss of innocence”, unless we get young Jack out of his house right away. Say, how old is Jack now, fourteen? I guess he got an early start. Hair of the dog, eh John? Look Beggs, you’ve got to help me here. Go over and get your son out of there”. A stunned Bill Beggs, lowering his voice as far as it would go said, “Right away’, and hung up.

Not knowing what to do, and realizing that if his parents found out, Jack would be on house arrest until his 65th birthday, Bill called me. Jack was simply too big for the two of us to handle, so we enlisted the help of the Bullock twins, and Chipps Page, who were delighted to be able to witness the sight of Jack in his Santa suit, unconscious on the Fallon’s kitchen floor, and they met us outside the Doctor’s house.
When we knocked on the Front door we were confronted with an angry Doctor Fallon, who challenged Bill with, ‘Where’s your father, mister?” We explained to the Doctor that Mr. and Mrs. Beggs were out, so the five of us would get Jack out of his house and take him home. Santa was still out cold on the kitchen floor, his beard all askew, and Mrs. Fallon was busy cleaning up the remains of the dinner that Mrs. Claus must had made for him before he began his trip from the North Pole, and that he had thrown up all over the Fallon’s floor. Jack was dead weight and it took all the strength we could muster to get him out of there and back home.

Here’s what had happened. It seems that there’s one more tradition in the local Christmas lore that Jack was unaware of. Each time Santa makes a visit he is rewarded by the grateful family on which he has bestowed his gifts, usually in the form of what local grown ups referred to as a “blast”. This consisted of a strong eggnog, or a shot of Cognac. The Fallon’s were Jack’s tenth and last family, which meant that fourteen year old Jack Beggs, whose first taste of alcohol was the Christmas Toast earlier that evening at the Gardens office, had consumed five eggnogs and four Cognacs before he knocked, with great difficulty, on the Doctor’s door. He had somehow lost his

hat, and was wearing his beard sideways as he staggered into the Fallon’s living room. Poor Jack was sick for a few days, and his parents actually did find out about his mischief, but drunkenness in the Forest Hills Gardens was a forgivable sin, not only condoned, but encouraged, even in children. Young Jack became a folk hero in the eyes of the local grown ups, who were sometimes referred to by their children as, the “unquenchables”. His father was greeted by friends with, “Chip off the old block, huh John?” His heroic performance had added stature to Jack’s reputation in the community, and I wondered how long it would be before his dad greeted him one evening with, “Hey son, how about a blast?”

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© 2010 Shaun Costello

Keep SHAUN COSTELLO’S BLOG up and running.

Creating and maintaining this BLOG is time

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please help me keep it going.

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Posted by shauncostello | December 18, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: Bill Beggs, Chipps Page, Christmas, Christmas Boozing, Christmas Carolers, Christmas in the Forest Hills Gardens, Dr. Fallon, Drunken Santa, Forest Hills Gardens, Jack Beggs, Santa shocks family, Stephen Bullock, Stuart Bullock, The Gardens Corporation, The Magi | 6 Comments

KING OF THE ELEVATOR – AND DAVE BRUBECK’S BITCH

KING OF THE ELEVATOR – AND DAVE BRUBECK’S BITCH

by Shaun Costello

In the dead of Winter, in either 1990 or 1991, I was returning from a long shooting day, along with my assistant and sound recordist. I don’t remember which project it was because those were halcyon days for me, and I was booked solid. We were tired and cranky. It was cold. Snow was on the ground. It was late –must have been after 10PM, and we had been working since early that morning. I was using the off-line
editing system in a friend’s apartment in Manhattan’s West Eighties,
to cut the project, and we were returning our equipment to his
editing room. We were standing on the lobby floor, waiting for the

elevator. The door opened, and we lugged our equipment cases into the small cubicle and turned to face the front. My camera was visible because I seldom put it in its case. Before the door closed, an old man, bundled up with too many clothes against the cold, got in with us. He looked like a kid whose mother had dressed him for a snowball fight – his arms, covered with too many layers to quite fall to his sides, stuck out a bit. He wore one of those winter hats that people in places like Minnesota put on their heads, the kind with ear flaps that tie under your chin. The flaps were untied and stuck straight out at right angles from his ears. His thick, black-framed glasses were still frosted over from the heat inside the building. This was about as dorky a guy as you’re going to run into, and considering the late hour, and state of exhaustion, I was not ready for conversation.
The elevator door closed, but instead of turning to face the front of the car, the old man in the snow suit just stood there looking at us. He was grinning. ”You guys out shooting in the cold? Must have been an important gig to keep you out until this hour, in this kind of cold. Something big, huh?” On the streets of Manhattan, a film crew is often approached by gawkers and passers bye, looking to make a negative assertion, saying something stupid, going for the cheap shot, something you get used to and try to ignore. But we were trapped

inside the elevator with Mr. Dorky, who was just about impossible to avoid. I could probably attempt to excuse my behavior that night by reminding you, dear reader, of how tired I was – but there’s no excuse for being that big a jerk. “We’ll shoot anything”, I answered, “Weddings, Bar Mitzvahs, no job’s too small, and as you can see, weather’s no object.” Was it my intention to belittle the man in the snow suit, to treat him with condescension and one-upsmanship? To show him just who he was dealing with here, late at night in the confines of that elevator? I’m a film director, you dork. How dare you speak to me.
His expression never changed. He just kept grinning, impervious to the pompous condescension I had dumped all over him. I can still remember his grin, framed by those those ear flaps. As the elevator came to a stop at his floor, still grinning he said, “It’s Tuesday. There are no Bar Mitvahs on Tuesdays. Night, boys.” And off he went, having won the bout with my surly personage by knockout.

As the elevator ascended to our floor, I couldn’t get the “Mr. Dorky” image out of my head. There was something about this guy – something strangely familiar. The door opened on the eighth floor and it fell on me like a ton of bricks, as I realized who the guy was. I turned to my assistant. “Do you know who that was?”, I asked. He just said, “Yeah”, and kept moving our equipment cases out of the elevator. “Do you know what kind of an asshole I was?”, I asked him. “Yeah”, he said again, grinning like Mr. Dorky, and turning the key in the apartment door. “Why didn’t you poke me, or something?” I was feeling deflated, like I had just behaved about as badly as a person can, regardless of my exhaustion, and pathetic need to exert my superiority over my fellow man. “You were too busy being a jerk”, my assistant told me, stacking cases in the editing room.
He was right. I was too busy being a jerk to notice that I had just treated one of this world’s true geniuses, and a personal hero of mine throughout my school years, one of this planet’s giants, with a combination of condescension and dismissal. The man had asked an honest question, and I, in my delusional need for one-upsmanship, tried to play King of the Elevator with a perfect stranger, whose only sin had been an engaging grin, and his refusal to take the bait. I felt such a fool. Such a guy. Such an asshole. A victim of my gender’s need to feel superior, even in an elevator.
And superior to whom? An old dorky guy in a snowsuit, who had the audacity to cross the line. To ask an honest question. To risk a moment of familiarity with a perfect stranger, with no motive other than simple curiosity. I’d like to say that I learned a lesson that night. That I woke up the next morning a better person, ready to take on the world. Able to slay the dragon. But none of that is true. I’m sure I awoke the next morning as big a jerk as I was the night before. Feeling impossibly crippled my own insecurity, and in awe of an old man in a snow suit, whose simple honesty had been so elegant. The old man, you see, was Dave Brubeck, who knew from personal experience that Bar Mitzvah’s were never held on Tuesdays. Rest in peace, Big Guy.

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© 2012 Shaun Costello

Keep SHAUN COSTELLO’S BLOG up and running.

Creating and maintaining this BLOG is time

consuming. If you like what you’ve been reading,

please help me keep it going.

DONATE ANY AMOUNT Through PAYPAL at:

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Posted by shauncostello | December 6, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: asshole in an elevator, Dave Brubeck, Dave Brubeck Quartet, insecurity, men as assholes, one upsmanship, Winter in New York | 3 Comments

ALEXANDER’S – THE STORE AND THE RAGTIME BAND

ALEXANDER’S – THE STORE AND THE RAGTIME BAND

by Shaun Costello

I am now pretty old, and have had certain dreams that have repeated themselves, sometimes identically, and sometimes in varying forms, throughout my life. Though my memory is nowhere near perfect, I can recollect events in detail going back to early childhood. My earliest memory is of being bathed by my mother in what seemed like a large kitchen sink,

probably at the age of one, give or take. I have several visual recollections from that time, but one is quite puzzling, and I thought I would share it with you, along with a startling discovery about that memory, and the possibilities of cognitive recollections from a sensory amalgam of sources, as my brain developed. The first dream, that I remember, was at approximately the age of between eight and ten. (1952 – 1954) The visual images and music would repeat, in varying forms, on a regular basis, until a discovery in the winter of 2001. I can only be vague about the frequency and number of repetitions, but it seemed often, and in the hundreds. Over the years, I have tried to discern the reasons behind the repeated recollection, but could come to no conclusion that made sense – until 2001.

It seems like winter. I am bundled. I am low to the ground. I am not walking. I am being propelled somehow. Above me are two faces. They are women, wearing hats. The top half of their faces are covered by nets, the kind that were attached to women’s hats in the 1930’s and 1940’s. They are talking to each other, and sometimes to me, although I can not hear their voices. But I do hear music. I hear the song Alexander’s Ragtime Band, with lyrics clear and loud.

That’s it. Over the years I came to some obvious conclusions:

That the two women were my mother and her best friend.

That I was being pushed along, low to the ground, in a child’s stroller.

That I was less than a year old. (I began walking at the age of ten months)

The mystery was the music. It was always recognizable as Alexander’s Ragtime Band. At some point along the way I simply stopped attempting to discover why this combination of images and music repeated itself so often, and accepted it as a fated event, and a pleasant one at that.

For a reason I can’t possibly explain, in the winter of 2001, I decided to take a look, and I returned to the physical location that I had concluded must have been where this took place.

I was born in the Bronx NY, in 1944. We lived not far from Fordham University. My father was in the Army, serving in the Pacific. The main shopping thoroughfare in our neighborhood was a boulevard called the Grand Concourse. To reach this venue from where we lived, you would have to walk up Fordham Road, about ten blocks or so up a gradual incline. My guess was, that my mother probably spent more time pushing me in a stroller along Fordham Road than any other street. I must have had some time on my hands that day in 2001, so off I went, searching for my early childhood.

Oddly enough, other than demographically, the neighborhood had not changed that much. The buildings that stood, back in the 1940’s, were still there, but of course housed different tenants and businesses. I walked East past Fordham University, and began the slight climb, up toward the Concourse, which was ten blocks away, at the top of the hill. The physicality of the street seemed correct, in terms of possibly being the location of my recollections. After walking about three blocks, I stopped to get my bearings, and see the bigger picture. It was here that I saw it.

At the very top of the hill, some six or seven blocks away, was a large brick building, distinguished from the surrounding architecture only by its larger size. Along the top of the building were five letters, ALEXA, very faded, probably painted many years ago. As I got closer, I realized that these letters were not a word, but part of a word. After the second A, the building had been painted another color, covering the last letters in the name. Then suddenly, I understood. The building at the top of the hill had been the original ALEXANDERS DEPARTMENT STORE, a popular neighborhood shopping venue in 1945, but only the first five letters of the name were still there, albeit just barely.

I guess you can see where this is headed, and it’s a fascinating possibility. Could the curious eyes of a child, less that a year old, have absorbed everything around him, storing different bits of data in separate parts of the brain, and have recollections of that data appear as memory, as the brain was able to decipher the information according to that brain’s cognitive evolution? That day, in that stroller, pushed along by those two women, could I have seen the ALEXANDERS sign as an image that could not possibly have any meaning until I learned to read? The sign would have been background to the closer, more vivid images of the two women, so the meaning of the letters would have no significance, until the brain was able to process the data and make the connection. The song Alexander’s Ragtime Band was popular at the time the images were imprinted. Could my brain have connected the song with stored image of the sign after I learned to spell, and scored the reoccurring dream with the song? The dreams began just after I learned to read. This was a genuine moment of discovery for me, and after that afternoon in 2001, I never had the dream again. A delicious conundrum.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPTbgvzgMZU

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Posted by shauncostello | November 23, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: 1944, 1945, Alexander's Department Store, Alexander's Ragtime Band, Baby Strollers, Brain-stored data, Bronx, cognition, cognitive elolution, Fordham Road, Fordham University, Grand Concourse, Memory, The Bronx, Veiled Hats, World War Two | Leave a comment

A DVD TWIN BILL FROM ENGLAND’S GOLDEN AGE OF AUTEUR-DRIVEN FILM MAKING

A few months ago I saw a documentary on TCM called CAMERAMAN – THE LIFE AND WORK OF JACK CARDIFF. After an astounding seventy years in the motion picture business, and with an astonishing portfolio of ground-breaking films to his credit, Cardiff’s interview in the film was both whimsical and revealing.

Having established himself as England’s leading Technicolor cinematographer, Cardiff talks about being approached by the great Michael Powell to shoot his next film, A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH – retitled STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN in the US. This would become an historic creative partnership between Cardiff and co-directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, that would yield A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH, THE RED SHOES, and BLACK NARCISSUS – three films that became the crowning achievement of England’s 1940’s/1950’s era of auteur-driven film making.

Having a behind the scenes look at the making of these classic films made me hungry to see them all again, and this double bill was my first purchase. Anyone who has not experienced the mesmerizing directorial skills of the Powell/Pressburger tandem, and who appreciates inventive, daring, and surprisingly challenging film making, will be thrilled with these unique motion pictures. There’s never been anything quite like them.

OK, these two titles on one DVD:

A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH (STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN) 1948 – Jack Cardiff’s first film with the Powell/Pressburger team – with David Niven, Kim Hunter, Robert Livesey, Raymond Massey, Marius Goring.

During the waning days of World War II, Niven, an RAF bomber pilot returning from a bombing raid, his plane in flames somewhere over the English Channel, radios his position only to discover a surprisingly delightful voice (Kim Hunter) on the other end. Niven had given his parachute to his navigator, and rather than burn to death in a plane crash, he tells the voice on the other

end of the radio that he’s going to jump. Something clicks (hey, it’s a movie) between Niven and Hunter, and he say’s a wistful farewell before jumping to his certain death. But something goes wrong somehow in Heaven’s Welcome to Eternity department, and we discover Niven, washed up on a beach somewhere in England. He awakens, thinking he’s dead, only to find he has somehow survived. YES, IT’S A DEAD GUY MOVIE! But the best ever made. Heaven goes into damage control over its mistake, and a great trial for Niven’s mortality begins. Of course, because this is a Dead Guy Movie, he meets the girl who stole his heart over the radio in his last moments in the burning bomber (Kim Hunter) and falls head over heels. I know this sounds ridiculous, and of course it is, but Powell and Pressburger’s nimble direction and Cardiff’s extraordinary visuals turn suds into cinema, and make it all work. During pre-production, Cardiff asks Powell if Heaven will be in color, and Earth in black and white, a safe assumption.

“No”, say’s Powell, “that’s just what everyone will expect”. So they flip the Heaven/Earth – Color/ B&W transition, that worked so well in The Wizard of Oz, in Earth’s colorful favor. It’s all fabulous fantasy from Powell, Pressburger, and Cardiff, who delivers ground breaking visual effects seamlessly. One of the real champs.

Special Features: Martin Scorsese on A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH – Commentary by historian Ian Christie

http://cinemajaguar.com/38733/A-Matter-of-Life-and-Death-1946-Trailer

And now for something completely different:

AGE OF CONSENT – 1969 – Directed by Michael Powell, and his last film. With James Mason, a very young and astonishingly beautiful and mostly naked Helen Mirren, and Jack MacGowran.

A middle aged painter (Mason) and an under aged girl (Mirren) on an almost-deserted Australian island. His mid-life crisis. His Tempest. He wants to paint her naked, and she gladly agrees. Do they? Could They? Should they? Not in today’s ridiculously politically correct moralistic cinema, but this is 1969,

and Michael Powell tells this taboo tale without a hint of judgment. Fluff, certainly, but fascinating fluff, with a compelling Mason, as the middle aged painter with an obsession, and Mirren, as the woman/child, without a care, and without regret. A sexual taboo, dealt with by Powell, without judging its outcome. A simple film of lyrical beauty (about twenty minutes of startlingly gorgeous cinematography with a totally naked Helen Mirren swimming underwater while Mason paints away in his little boat), and well handled by all involved.

Special Features: Martin Scorsese on AGE OF CONSENT – Commentary by historian Kent Jones – Making of Age Of Consent – Helen Mirren: A conversation with Cora – Down under with Ron and Valerie Taylor

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHrEmY2RqyU

Keep SHAUN COSTELLO’S BLOG up and running.

Creating and maintaining this BLOG is time

consuming. If you like what you’ve been reading,

please help me keep it going.

DONATE ANY AMOUNT Through PAYPAL at:

shaun.costello@gmail.com

Posted by shauncostello | November 6, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello, Uncategorized | Tags: A Matter Of Life And Death, Age Of Consent, Black Narcissus, Cameraman-The Life and Work of Jack Cardiff, Emeric Pressburger, Helen Mirren, Jack Cardiff, James Mason, Michael Powell, Sexual Taboo's, The Red Shoes | Leave a comment

9/11 CONNECTION WIDELY IGNORED IN PRESS COVERAGE OF EMBASSY ATTACKS

9/11 CONNECTION WIDELY IGNORED

IN U.S. EMBASSY ATTACKS

Yesterday, September 11, 2012, the eleventh anniversary of the Al Qaida attacks on the World trade center, the US Embassy in Cairo, and our Consulate in Benghazi, Libya came under attack. The American Ambassador to Libya, J. Christopher Stevens, and three

Embassy staffers were killed while attempting to evacuate the Consulate in Benghazi. Both attacks were allegedly attributed to the release of the trailer for a film made by an Israeli Jew, living in California, which depicts Islam and the Prophet Muhammad in a negative light.

Muslims find it offensive to depict Muhammad in any fashion, much less in an insulting way. The 2005 publication of 12 caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad in a Danish newspaper triggered death threats in Denmark and riots in many Muslim countries.

In the late 1990’s, after the publication of Salmon Rushdie’s Satanic Verses, the mad Mullahs of Iran sentenced Rushdie to death for his literary efforts, encouraging assassination squads to hunt the author down and take their lethal Islamic vengeance. Of course, none of the Mullahs who were after Rushdie’s blood, had read Rushdie’s book. Soon after the death sentence was handed down, I sat next to Rushdie in an East Hampton restaurant, and must admit to being a bit apprehensive during dinner.

A 14-minute trailer of the movie that sparked yesterday’s protests, posted on the website YouTube in an original English version and another dubbed into Egyptian Arabic, depicts Muhammad as a fraud, a womanizer and a madman in an overtly ridiculing way, showing him having sex and calling for massacres.

The website’s guidelines call for removing videos that include a threat of violence, but not those that only express opinions. YouTube’s practice is not to comment on specific videos.

Sam Bacile, a 56-year-old California real estate developer who identifies himself as an Israeli Jew and who said he produced, directed and wrote the two-hour film, “Innocence of Muslims,” said he had not anticipated such a furious reaction.

Speaking by phone from an undisclosed location, Bacile, who went into hiding Tuesday, remained defiant, saying Islam is a cancer and that he intended his film to be a provocative political statement condemning the religion.

Bacile said he believes the movie will help his native land by exposing Islam’s flaws to the world. “Islam is a cancer, period,” he repeatedly said in a solemn, accented tone.

It should surprise no one that Sam Bacile is an alias. The film’s director turns out to be neither an Israeli nor a Jew. His name is Nakoula Basseley Nakoula, and he is a Coptic Christian. Nakoula remains in hiding, and has assigned the job of promoting the bizarre project to a Mr. Steve Klein, a failed California real estate developer and Vietnam Veteran, whose name has been connected to several organizations that could be described as hate groups. Mr. Klein’s hate-focus seems centered on Islam.

These attacks happened on 9/11, folks. Does anyone really think it was a coincidence? And why weren’t our embassies in the Middle East on heightened alert? Isn’t the CIA supposed to alert the NSA before events like this take place? Was someone asleep at the

switch? If we can’t protect our embassies, we can’t justify having them. The Islamists become more intolerable with every passing day. And it’s not just Islam against the USA, it’s Islam against the world. This would not have happened if Ghadafi and Mubarak were still in power. What does that tell us? It’s horrible to contemplate, but maybe these countries are better off with dictators, who keep the insanity of the Islamists in check. The Arab Spring might just wind up being the beginning of a whole new era of Islamist Madness. Oh, and Iran is building a bomb. Iran the greatest exporter of terrorism on the planet will soon be able to distribute nuclear devices to its world-wide terror cells. Maybe Israel is right. This is all heading in a really bad direction.

Oddly, the press coverage of the Cairo and Benghazi attacks is making no connection to the date on which they occurred. The anti-Semites are claiming that it’s all the fault of the Jews. The extreme pacifists are claiming that retribution for American drone strikes justifies the killing of the Americans, even though those drone attacks are taking place thousands of miles away. The Arab Street is out chanting away, clamoring for death to those who insult Islam. But few, if any, journalists are connecting the date of these attacks to the infamous World Trade Center attacks of eleven years ago. I wonder why.

I watched the video yesterday, and it’s hilarious. No one in his right mind could possibly take this thing seriously. It’s that bad, and makes no sense whatsoever. Mr. Klein, the film’s promoter, is an extremist with a big chip on his shoulder. I disagree with his views, but those views are constitutionally protected. This is a clash of disparately different cultures. The Arab Street has no concept of free speech. They are taught to hate in the Madrasses, and hate they do. This will get worse before it gets better. Libya is an armed camp, unlike Egypt. The present Libyan goverment has been trying to get the rebels to give up the weapons they used to overthrow Ghadafi, but with little success. Until those weapons are confiscated, Libya will remain a tinderbox. Regarding Mr. Klein, hate him if you want to, but he didn’t kill anyone. The Arab Street killed our people. The Arab Street is its own worst enemy. Until the Mullahs stop teaching their children to hate and to kill, the Arab Street will remain its own worst enemy – and ours.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iC6yGzpSvjU

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/12/j-christopher-stevens-ambassador-to-libya-killed_n_1876544.html?show_comment_id=186261938#comment_186261938,sb=997485,b=facebook

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Posted by shauncostello | September 12, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: 9/11, Benghazi, Cairo, Cairo US Embassy under attack, Coptic Christians, Death in Libya, Embassy Attacks, Embassy staffers killed, J Christopher Stevens, Mad Mullahs, Nakoula Basseley Nakoula, Salmon Rushdie, Steve Klein, The Arab Street | 1 Comment

WGCU A DISGRACE TO PUBLIC RADIO

WGCU, a mismanaged National Public Radio affiliate, broadcasting in the Southwest Florida area, is attempting to extort surcharges from its listeners for programming carried for free by other affiliates.

Some background, according to Wikipedia:

WGCU-FM (90.1 FM) is an NPR-member radio station. Licensed to Fort Myers, Florida, USA, the station is owned by Florida Gulf Coast University.

WGCU’s schedule consists of jazz and NPR news and talk. WGCU-FM’s programming is simulcast on ‘WMKO FM 91.7, a full-time station licensed to Marco Island to serve the Naples area.

WGCU-FM first signed on in 1983 as WSFP-FM, a station owned by the University of South Florida in Tampa, owners of public broadcasting stations WUSF FM and TV. At the time, Fort Myers / Naples was the only media market in Florida without any public broadcasting stations. WSFP-FM was largely a rebroadcast of WUSF-FM.

The broadcast license was transferred to the new Florida Gulf Coast University in 1996, while the finishing touches were being put on Florida’s newest university. WSFP-FM changed its calls to WGCU-FM on June 13, 1997, two months before FGCU opened.

Broadcasting from its transmitter site in southern Charlotte County, WGCU-FM’s signal is barely listenable in Naples, though its grade-B signal reaches much of northern Collier County. Soon after FGCU opened, it requested funding for a second station to serve the Naples area. WMKO signed on for the first time in 1999.

In 2009, WGCU moved its classical music programming to a 24/7 feed on its digital sub-channel.

WGCU is also referenced for hurricane information on signs across southwest Florida.

Long notorious for not making projected quotas on fund raising pledge drives, and short of funds because of consistent mismanagement, WGCU announced several weeks ago that it would drop the weekly broadcast of NPR’s long-running, hit show A Prairie Home Companion. This announcement came as a

shock to the thousands of local fans of one of NPR’s most popular shows. The reason given by WGCU’s management was that the station could no longer afford the program that the rest of America enjoys on a weekly basis. Shortly after WGCU announced this cancellation, a series of WGCU-produced promos began, suggesting that WGCU would bring back A Prairie Home Companion if listeners, many of whom are already contributing members of the station, pay a surcharge for the program. When the Mafia does this kind of thing it’s called extortion. Asking listeners to pay additional money, something no other NPR affiliate has ever done, because of consistently bungled mismanagement of the station is outrageous. Since WGCU is owned by Florida Gulf Coast University, it becomes the responsibility of that University to investigate the mismanagement of its broadcast entity.

WGCU’s General Manager Rick Johnson, whose attitude toward anyone who questions his policies might best be described as arrogant and smug, claimed to be shocked that Florida Governor Rick Scott vetoed more than four million dollars in funding for Public Broadcasting. But Scott’s veto, devastating as it might be, does not explain WGCU’s mishandling of its budgetary responsibilities. Nor does it explain the boondoggle surrounding the attempt by the station to extort additional funding from its listening members to bring back programming that WGCU management has cancelled because they claim it is not affordable by the station. Just where has all the money from all the pledge drives gone? I, for one, would like to know. If Rick Johnson’s management team is responsible for mismanagement of the station, they should be replaced by a staff more answerable to their listeners and supporters. The number of experienced broadcast personnel now unemployed by a shrinking economy should easily provide replacements.

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Posted by shauncostello | July 18, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello, Uncategorized | Tags: A Prairie Home Companion, extortion, Florida Gulf Coast University, mismangement, National Public Radio, NPR, Pledge Drives, Rick Johnson, Rick Scott, WGCU | 1 Comment

NEW EVIDENCE PROVES CARTER STEVENS IS AN ALIEN

FINALLY – PROOF THAT CARTER STEVENS IS AN ALIEN

Associated Press January 24, 2012 In a startling news conference today that rocked rural Pennsylvania, Barnaby McNabb, the Mayor of the Township of Pocahontas, stated for the record that he had proof that one of Pocahontas’s residents, a Mr. Carter Stevens was, in fact, an alien being. Long suspected of unusual behavior, Mr. Stevens posted a suspicious photograph of himself on a social networking web site. “The minute I saw that picture, Stevens’ goose was cooked”, claimed Mayor McNabb. “That pink helmet was a sure-fire giveaway. With those two antennae on his head, Stevens was obviously able to communicate with others of his ilk, and we’ve been listening, believe me”. McNabb claimed that local and State authorities have intercepted encrypted radio messages transmitted from the area of Stevens’ home. “He’s talking with some guy named Klaatu something-or-other. It’s all in some Nikto-Shmikto alien mumbo jumbo, but our boys are getting to the bottom of it, you can bet on that”. Stevens first came under suspicion when local livestock began to disappear. “Cows, chickens, goats – you name it. And those farm boys all claimed the same thing – a strange, bright light in the sky, and some kind of light beam that hit their barns, and faster than you can say Jack Robinson, there goes Ole Bossie”

Mayor McNabb further asserted that the disappearance of livestock began shortly after the arrival of Mr. Stevens in the Pocahontas community. “We had a real peaceful little town before that creature showed up. Then everything went all kerfluey, and critters began to disappear. First the farm animals, then the girls”. The Mayor seemed reluctant to explain details, but said that within a month of the first kidnapped cow, the young women of Pocahontas began to disappear, one after another. “I guess Stevens and his alien cohorts experimented with the livestock, before moving on to the town’s young women. God only knows what he did with them. I shudder to think what those poor girls went through”. Each of the abducted women reappeared after a period of three days, but according to friends and family members, their behavior had become quite different. “They were all from good Christian families. God fearing folks. Church-goers, every one. But you’d never guess it from the way they acted, once they escaped from the clutches of that alien maniac”. The clue that broke the case wide open, according to Mayor McNabb, was a photograph that Mr. Stevens posted on his Facebook page. “The first thing I noticed was that pink helmet, a dead giveaway if there ever was one. But then I saw the vest. He was wearing a black leather vest. Some kind of space-garb, I guess. But when I had a look-see at what was painted on the back, I near to had a heart attack. It was the spitting image of Elsie Bronkowski, a girl I’ve know since she was in diapers, and the first young woman to disappear”. The Mayor claimed that the Bronkowski girl, like all the rest, reappeared three days after her abduction, but had gone through some kind of alien makeover. “Elsie was a devout Seventh Day Adventist. Baked seed cakes for the church socials. Did you see that drawing of her on Stevens’ vest? Naked as a Jaybird. Some kind of restraint devices on her wrists and ankles. God only knows what they put her through. And now, well let’s just say she’s become a daughter of Satan. Works at the Peek-a-Boo Lounge, over in Stroudsburg, dancing naked for the truck drivers. A good Christian girl, abducted by Stevens and his alien cronies, and now look at her – all sweaty and naked. Shaking her booty for those perverts”.

Although he would not go on record as saying so, Mayor McNabb suggested that law enforcement personnel had made a covert visit inside Stevens’

Pocono retreat. “Let’s just say we came up with the clincher, evidence wise. These aliens are crafty, I’ll tell you that. We found, what looked like some kind of toy. You know, like a top, that a child would spin. And it had some kind of writing on it – foreign writing. Like nothing from this earth. Here it was – the language from another world. Some kind of intergalactic gibberish. And then it hit me. This is how they learned about space travel. How they

invented the flying saucer. As young mutants, they would spin these toys, probably on some kind of alien Holiday, and watch them spinning, and out of the minds of these space kids came the flying saucer. And now, everyone in Pocahontas is hiding behind locked doors. No one is safe. And young girls I’ve known since they were kids, are flagging down sixteen wheelers at truck stops. And it’s all because of Stevens. First it was Roswell, now it’s Pocahontas. And next? It looks to me like world conquest. And how did they do it? It all started with that little top. The one with the funny writing all over it. And now, the world as we know it, looks like it’s coming to an untimely end. Goodbye, my friends”.

A tearful Mayor McNabb left the press conference, an obviously shattered man. Phone calls, made in an attempt to confirm the Mayor’s remarks, to the Pennsylvania Governor in Harrisburg, and to NASA, went unanswered.

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Posted by shauncostello | January 24, 2012 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: Alien Abduction, Aliens, Carter Stevens, Space Travel, The invention of the Flying Saucer | 3 Comments

GINGRICH “SPONGEBOB” RANT ANGERS PARENTS

GINGRICH “SPONGE BOB” RANT ANGERS PARENTS. MIGHT COST HIM NOMINATION.

ASSOCIATED PRESS December 4^th During a news conference today, Republican Presidential hopeful Newt Gingrich stunned reporters with an angry outburst aimed at the hugely popular children’s animated TV program, SpongeBob Square Pants. Taking questions, after making a speech before the Florida Businessmen’s Alliance in Tampa Florida today, the former Speaker of the House was asked whether he was aware of recent tweets suggesting his physical similarity to the beloved animated character, SpongeBob Square Pants. An angered Gingrich rebuked his questioner, “I know of no such suggestions, and if I did know any such suggestions, this is hardly the time or place to address them. This is just another example of the liberal press attempting to smear a Presidential candidate by comparing him to a ridiculous, and I might add, dangerous animated character in what is alleged to be a children’s TV series.” When asked what he meant by dangerous, Mr. Gingrich replied, “SpongeBob Square Pants is a subversive, and suggestive piece of socialist propaganda, aimed at convincing innocent children that sea sponges, and other creatures live harmoniously beneath the world’s oceans, in a world of happiness and tranquility, far removed from the contentious realities of everyday life. A child growing up being fed that kind of hogwash will have no chance whatsoever of successfully dealing with the harsh realities that confront today’s adults”. Asked what he meant by the show being suggestive, the former Speaker said, “The Square Pants family, and all of the other silly anthropomorphic anomalies in this show live in the fictional undersea town of Bikini Bottom. Need I say more? I think we all know what’s in a bikini bottom gentlemen, and that’s not the kind of place where the innocent minds of children need to dwell.”

Mr. Gingrich, who in recent weeks has spoken out about fixing school budgets by firing the janitorial staff and giving mops and brooms to the kids themselves, and institutionalizing the children of welfare families by placing them in orphanages, did not waver in his tough-love approach to education. “You can bet that the funding for socialist propaganda like SpongeBob, is deeply rooted in the National Endowment for the Arts, which has, as studies have shown, a Marxist/Leninist agenda.” Mr. Gingrich refused to take any further questions, and left the podium. Calls to the Gingrich for President campaign headquarters, attempting to confirm today’s comments, have gone unanswered.

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Posted by shauncostello | December 4, 2011 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: Gingrich, Gingrich "Insitutionalize Welfare children", Gingrich "SpongeBob" Rant, Gingrich "They'd be better off in Boystown"., Gingrich angers parents, Gingrich for President, Newt, Newt Gingrich, Newt Gingrich angers parents, Newt's "SpongeBob" Rant, SpongeBob, SpongeBob Square Pants | 10 Comments

A BRONX TALE

A BRONX TALE

A couple of kids from the Bronx dance their way through the depression.

by Shaun Costello

My mother and Uncle Tommy were born in the Jewish/Irish Tremont section of the Bronx – Tommy in 1917, and his younger sister Catherine, two years later. Their parents, Nan, and Black Jack Dowling made a living of sorts on the Vaudeville stage as a dance act. But New York was where you played once you had made a name for yourself, and the Dancing Dowlings were far from being headliners. So, once my mother was old enough to walk, they picked up stakes and headed for Norfolk Virginia, a hub in the Southern Vaudeville circuit, where, shamelessly billing themselves as New York’s dancing sensations, it would be easier to get bookings. Norfolk was the venue of choice for another reason as well – it was home port to one of the United States Navy’s largest installations, employing over seventy five thousand Naval personnel, many of whom, when pay day rolled around, wasted no time losing

their hard-earned pay in the myriad of floating crap games and poker sessions that so often seemed to find men in uniform, whenever they had money in their pockets. My grandfather, Black Jack Dowling, when not booked to entertain Vaudeville audiences with his dancing feet, was more than happy to swindle recently paid sailors out of their cash with his practiced slight of hand. Wearing a stolen sailor suit, my grandfather, a predator with portfolio, armed with marked cards and loaded dice, rode the trains into and out of Norfolk, systematically separating the sailors from their pay, often just one step ahead of the local Sherriff, and occasionally that Sherriff’s guest in the local jail house.

Trained by their parents in the art of stage craft, Tom and Sis, now incorporated into The Dancing Dowlings, dazzled all who saw them with their high stepping and showmanship – they were naturals. With the kids carrying the show, the family act seemed to stay booked, and performed throughout the Southern Vaudeville Circuit on playbills with Fanny Brice, Buck and Bubbles, Jack Benny, Burns and Allen, Eddie Cantor, Al Jolson, and just about everyone who toured back then. But success couldn’t keep a card sharp like my grandfather out of regular incarceration for his nefarious railroad hijinks, and his absences became more frequent, until finally, he disappeared altogether. The act, unbookable without its patriarch, made the journey back to the Bronx, in search of employment for my grandmother, and education for her kids.

While still in High School, Tom and Sis continued to do what they did best, and they danced and danced, until people began to take notice. They starred in school productions, and spent all their spare time at a famous Bronx jazz club called the Club Fordham, where they entertained the musicians by improvising dance routines to any kind of music. Though not employed by The Club Fordham, they were encouraged by the

club’s owner Maurice Reidy, and performed their dance routines until they became crowd favorites. There was a buzz about them now – who were these kids? Reporters began to make the trek up to the Bronx, to watch, and to write about those kids at the Club Fordham. Photo shoots for magazines followed – ‘how to’

spreads with Tom and Sis demonstrating the latest dance craze for a dance-crazy generation of readers. Using the photographs from one of these sessions, the editorial staff at Ladies Home Journal hired an illustrator to create a likeness of ‘the kids’ for the cover of the August 1938 edition. So there they were, Tom and Sis Dowling, a couple of depression era Bronx kids, right there on the cover of a national magazine, doing their thing.

Within a year they had made the seamless transition from The Club Fordham, to Manhattan’s Stork Club, where they became favorites

of the owner, Walter Winchell, who both promoted and protected them. Now, this was the era of the ‘Big Bands’, and band leaders often hired dancers to demonstrate the latest dance trends to their music, for an ever-eager public. Winchell had mentioned Tom and Sis to his friend Horace Heidt, one of the era’s biggest band leaders, and, after seeing them dance up a storm at the Stork Club, Heidt offered them a contract to perform with his band, “Horace Heidt’s Musical Knights”, one of the

biggest bands of that decade. The gig with Heidt was followed by

gainful employment, dancing with Tommy Dorsey’s Orchestra, and Benny Goodman, as well. So now ‘the kids’ were getting paid to do what, until then, they had done for free.

In between performances with big bands, they would return to the Stork Club, where they had become audience favorites, until that fateful night in 1939, when Darryl Zanuck and Bill Goetz happened to see them dance, and

offered Tom and Sis an invitation to come to Hollywood as contract players for Twentieth Century Fox. Their Bronx days behind them, ‘the kids’, cheered on by the gang from the Club Fordham, boarded the train for Hollywood, and the next chapter of their lives.

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Posted by shauncostello | November 26, 2011 | Categories: Fiction and non-fiction from Shaun Costello | Tags: Benny Goodman, Bronx, Catherine Dowling, Club Fordham, Fordham, Horace Heidt, Jack Dowling, Jitterbug, Larry Racies, Nan Dowling, Sis Dowling, Stork Club, The depression, The Stork Club, Tom Dowling, Vaudeville, Walter Winchell | 5 Comments

Shaun Costello's Blog Short stories and essays by Shaun Costello, as well as excerpts from manuscripts in progress.

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