Q.                  Now then do you remember asking anybody where you could get coffee?

Sirhan         I don’t remember – I could have – but I don’t remember, although I found some coffee, sir.

Q.                  When you say you found some coffee was there something that you saw?

Sirhan         Yes, sir, there was a big urn (gesturing).

Q.                  You are indicating about three and a half feet in width?

Sirhan         Yes, sir, it was a very big one.

Q.                  What color was it?

Sirhan         It was shiny.  I don’t know what color it was.

Q.                  Like silver?

Sirhan         Yes, sir, probably.

Q.                  Were there coffee cups around it?

Sirhan         There were piles and piles of saucer cups and saucers.

Q.                  No mirrors?

Sirhan         There were no mirrors there.

Q.                  Did you see any people there?

Sirhan         I don’t remember, sir.  I was so glad to have found the coffee that that was the only thing on my mind, sir.

Q.                  Did somebody pour you a cup of coffee?

Sirhan         No, as I was pouring my own coffee some girl came up and said that she wanted some coffee too, and I like my coffee with cream and sugar, lots of cream, and that’s exactly the way she liked it.

Q.                  Did that surprise you?

Sirhan         Well, I thought I was the only one that liked too much cream in his coffee.  So I gave her the cup that I had meant for myself and poured myself another cup.

Q.                  Was that girl alone or was there someone with her?

Sirhan         I don’t remember exactly, sir.

Q.                  Do you have any idea approximately how old she was?

Sirhan         About my age.

Q.                  A good looking girl?

Sirhan         Beautiful.

Q.                  Did you engage her in conversation?

Sirhan         As long as the coffee was being served I told her how I would like to drink some coffee too.

Q.                  How much coffee did you have, if you recall?

Sirhan         I don’t remember, sir, how much.

Q.                  What happened next?

Sirhan         I don’t remember.

Q.                  What was the next thing you did?

Sirhan         The next thing I remember, sir, I was being choked.

Q.                  Do you remember anything between the time you had the coffee, anything?

Sirhan         No, sir.  No, I don’t remember.

Q.                  Now, you have heard the testimony in here of at least a dozen witnesses I suppose?

Sirhan         Yes.

Q.                  That you were standing in the pantry?

Sirhan         That is what I later learned in this court, sir.

Q.                  Well, you learned it before that?

Sirhan         Yes, I did, Mr. Parsons, that is.

Q.                  That you walked up to Senator Kennedy and put a gun toward his head, possibly within an inch or two and you pulled the trigger and he eventually died?

Sirhan         Yes.  I was told this.

Q.                  Now, you believe it is true?

Sirhan         Obviously, sir.

Q.                  Now after you were choked, you remember being choked?

Sirhan         I was choked, yes, quite severely.

Q.                  Do you remember the people who were choking you?

Sirhan         No, I don’t even know.

Q.                  As you were being choked it hurt you?

Sirhan         I don’t know who was doing the choking but he was doing a good job at it.

Q.                  What do you next remember?

Sirhan         I remember getting to the car, the police car, and one of the policemen pulling my hair and jerking my head backwards and putting a light for a long time in my eyes.

Q.                  Let me ask you this.  Did you know in the early morning hours, that is after midnight of the 4^th and the early morning hours of the 5^th of June, that you had shot Senator Robert Kennedy?

Sirhan         No, sir, I did not.

Q.                  When was the first time that you remembered that you were accused of shooting Senator Robert Kennedy?

Sirhan         When this Mr. Jordan, and this is the only man that I remember, because of his name, Jordan; that he took me to his courtroom and I was in front of a lady Judge.  I remember that.  I couldn’t believe it, sir.

Q.                  Now, let me ask you this, Sirhan.  You have told this jury that when you came to the Ambassador Hotel that night you didn’t come there with any intention of shooting Kennedy, is that right?

Sirhan         That is correct, sir.

Q.                  You don’t remember shooting him?

Sirhan         I don’t remember shooting him.

When does one stop loving someone?  A year?  Five years?  A lifetime?  The half smile she flashes when slightly amused.  Her laugh at an unexpected joke.  “Don’t look at me.”  The Velvet Turtle.  Red Onion first time seeing her.  Chasing her into a dress shop the second.  “You look like someone I saw at the Red Onion a few months ago.  I wanted to get her number but she vanished,” I said.  “I go to the Red Onion,” she volunteered.  “It was the night Irene Cara was there,” I added.  “I was there the night Irene Cara was there,” she responded.  Curse of an excellent memory.  Her voice, my God her voice.  Of course she wanted to ride the modern roller coaster, I the old fashioned wooden one.  Note to self.  If overweight never wear Hawaiian shirts.  “Am I the fattest boyfriend you ever had?”  At a book store she picked up a giant, red, Webster dictionary.  I wasn’t going to let her be smarter than me.  I bought one too.  She laughed.  We could read each other’s thoughts.  Early breakfast at that café in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.  Eggs benedict.  Who the fuck eats eggs benedict.  Tasted awful, not enough food, left me broke for a week.  Worth it.  It pleased her.  “Don’t look at me,” I commanded.  She was too beautiful to look at.  “Don’t look at me,” she said softly back.  Was I attractive to her as well?  I wonder.  So feminine.  So very feminine.  Everyone clapped as she walked across the floor to hand in our winning raffle ticket at the employee Christmas party.  Everyone hated me.  I couldn’t get it.  They clapped loud and sincerely.  They loved her.  How could they not.  The grace, beauty and intelligence wrapped in that elegant, long, winter coat – they knew.  How proud I was of her that night.  Of me with her.  Of us.  When does one stop loving someone?  Never.

Michael:  Let’s go see this film.

Ruth:   Who is naked?

Michael:  How should I know?

Ruth:   Does it have sub-titles?

Michael:  No, why?  Can’t you read?

Ruth:   Are the actors still alive?

Michael:  Yes.  It stars Billy Bob Thornton, a really good actor.

Ruth:   Who else is in it?

Michael:  I’m sure other actors.  It’s not a monologue.

Ruth:   I’ll ask you one more time.  Who is the girl?

Michael:  halle berry.

Ruth:   WHO?

Michael:  Halle Berry!

September 13, 2007

Senator Gloria Romero

149 S. Mednick Avenue, Suite 203

East Los Angeles, CA  90022

Dear Senator Romero:

It was a pleasure meeting you at the rally on the steps of City Hall in Los Angeles a few weeks ago.  You asked me to find out what specifically were Sirhan’s complaints at Corcoran Prison.  He has since communicated them to me.

In the aftermath of the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers, his situation at Corcoran rapidly deteriorated.  A prison guard accused Sirhan of being a “terrorist.”  This was followed by a series of wild accusations that prison authorities accused him of but upon investigation exonerated him.  But as a result of these confrontations, Sirhan feels the guards in particular are prejudiced against him.  With the first accusation he was placed in an isolated cell 24/7 and is still in this living situation.  He would like to be placed in a less restrictive environment.  Yet he also feels his life is in danger and not just from other inmates.  He is afraid to receive visitors because the corridor he must walk to reach the visitors area makes him vulnerable to attack and one inmate was killed in this corridor.

Sirhan says the prison psychiatrists are falsely and purposely writing bad reports to keep him from making parole.  At his last parole hearing there was a misunderstanding/problem that resulted in Sirhan having to wait five years for the next parole hearing and he feels this is unfair.

The bottom line though is he fears for his life at Corcoran and requests a transfer to the prison in Lancaster.  There is a special needs unit there he feels would be appropriate for him.

Off the record it does appear Sirhan was framed for the RFK murder.  I’ve enclosed for your perusal an affidavit from Even Freed, an eyewitness to the assassination.  This affidavit was written in 1992 after Mr. Freed had become an attorney working for the City of Los Angeles.  He tells of seeing a second gunman firing at Kennedy at the same time Sirhan was firing from the front.  It’s this second gunman who fired the fatal shot to the back of the head of Mr. Kennedy.

Thank you for your attention.

Sincerely,

“You know Tyra Banks?” I asked.  Someone in the office had tipped me.  “I’m her aunt,” Gloria smugly replied.  You must be from the dark side of the family, I thought but for once thankfully kept my mouth shut.  Now I was embarrassed and not a little shamed.  Surely sitting just a few desks from mine Gloria’s heard my rants about male Negroes not being able to walk out of the house without committing a felony.  Damn.  And I be liking my Tyra.  Gloria never said much at work but noticed everything.  Know everything and say nothing.  A good policy if working for the county.  Wish I had learned it.  Might have saved me a lot of grief.  Maybe made a little mo money.

One night after work I saw a copy of Jet Magazine in a liquor store.  My girl was on the cover.  I picked it up read it and dropped it off on Gloria’s desk the next day when she was elsewhere.  A week passed before she found out I was the one who left it on her desk.

One day Gloria stopped by and this time dropped a note on my desk.  “Ty is going to be in L.A. at the Beverly Center for a book signing.  Go meet her,” she commanded.  On the note was the date and time and place.  “I’m not standing in line with a thousand screaming thirteen-year-old girls just to meet Tyra Banks,” I ungratefully said.  “Oh be a man and just go meet her,” she chastised me.

My whole life has been one long humiliation so what’s one more I thought.  On the big day I was in line at the Beverly Center with the other thirteen year olds.  Tyra shows up with a giant Negro bodyguard/chauffeur escorting her and the line quickly dissipated as Tyra began signing her new book.  I’m next in line to get my copy signed when black Goliath gently puts his hand on my left shoulder.  I get it.  It’s non verbal guy talk that only guys can understand.  That touch is him telling me don’t be stupid and do anything crazy.  While he was checking me out as a potential security threat I was checking out the scene for the same reason.  I’ve always been security conscious wherever I’m at.  Maybe it’s the latent cop in me or my study of the JFK assassination and its aftermath but I can’t go anywhere without doing my own mental security check.  I noticed black Tarzan in front of Tyra but she was exposed from the rear.  Any freak could appear from behind her and it takes only a moment for lives to be changed forever.  I don’t like it.  At least the bookstore could provide an employee to just hang out behind and near her during the book signing.  Later I would assure Gloria that security for Tyra was fine and she looked relieved.

Tyra in person is so shy.  The whole model persona must be a separate personality she has to adopt.  The professional Tyra.  I prefer shy Tyra.  So feminine.  Makes you want to protect her.  She asked me who the book was for.  I asked her to make it out to Chelsea, my niece.  Tyra took considerable time to think of something thoughtful to write.  I took the book back and started to walk away.  After a couple of steps I realized my rudeness and turned and said, “Thank you.”  She smiled.  I almost bowed and added, “Your cuteness” but caught myself.  Sometimes I need to keep my mouth shut and other times let it fly.  I should have let it fly this time but feared a slap down from Gloria later.

The next day Gloria asked me how it went and what specifically did I say and how did Tyra respond and I told her.  Gloria asked me what my address was and I gave it to her.  A short time later I received an 8’ 10” head shot of Tyra and she had written, Mike Calder – Best Wishes, Tyra Banks.  Right back at you doll.

Went out to Dodger Stadium to watch the game.  More of a pilgrimage that I purposely had been putting off.  Inside the stadium I heard my name called and recognized the voice.  John Hernandez, my little league and youth league baseball coach and father of Keith Hernandez, first baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals, was standing and waving at me.  He insisted I sit with him and Gary, Keith’s brother.  Mr. Hernandez walked me toward first base to meet Keith.  Stadium security came forward to wave us off but Mr. Hernandez explained he was Keith’s father.  Keith came over and asked what I was up to.  I told him I was pursuing an acting career.  I suggested he do some acting in the off season, at least commercials, but he smiled and said he would stick to baseball.  “Watch the game, relax – have a beer.”  Fuck you, Keith, I thought.  Don’t patronize me.  I was twice as good as you.  I held my tongue.

Joining Gary (Tanglefoot) we sat down waiting for the game to start and talked about old times.  I told Gary and Mr. Hernandez how beautiful I thought Mrs. Hernandez was while growing up.  Mr. Hernandez smiled.  A Texas beauty with a slight Southern accent she always treated me well.  Mr. Hernandez was a Spaniard and quite handsome.  Strong, broad shouldered and left handed as are his sons and myself, we lefties stuck together.  He was a terrific ballplayer in his day as the star of Mission High School in San Francisco.  In the minor leagues he was beaned by a pitch injuring his vision at least enough to chase him out of professional baseball.  One day at the house Keith broke out his dad’s scrapbook.  A modest man only by going through his scrapbook would you know he was a legend in San Francisco High School baseball history.  His 640 batting average was going to be tough to beat.

“You know you were better than Keith,” Mr. Hernandez began going back in time.  He told me a story I was unaware of.  During the three weekends of little league tryouts Mr. Hernandez noticed how talented I was and determined to draft me on his team.  During the batting section of the tryouts he was pitching and in order to make me look bad to the other coaches he threw extra hard to me, including curves, etc.  I was nine.  One night my mother received a call from Carl Vallero, the manager of the little league team that Mr. Hernandez was the coach for, and told my mom I had made the team.  She was shocked.  I hadn’t told anyone I was trying out for little league.  Each week I read the Pacific Tribune, our hometown newspaper, as well as the San Francisco Chronicle sports section checking on the Giants performance.  I read about the tryouts coming up and since I had been playing at least since I was seven I tried out.

Mr. Hernandez didn’t just teach us boys about baseball but also set an example of how men are supposed to be.  As a twelve year old center field sensation my arrogance was as high as my talent great.  I must have said something to offend Mr. Hernandez because our manager, Mr. Vallero, came to me during practice and told me to go and apologize to Mr. Hernandez who was walking alone in the outfield with his head held down, hands clasped behind his back.  Meeting him in the outfield I walked alongside and apologized for whatever it was I had said.  His face lit up and his hands fell free to his side.  “Remember Mike,” he stated, “the people you meet on the way up are the same people you will meet on the way back down.”

In these growing up years I would watch Mr. Hernandez giving tips to rival ballplayers on other teams and was resentful.  Why was he helping the enemy, I thought.  Paying attention like young Macedonian warriors we learned before you could become a good ballplayer you had to master fear of the baseball.  To demonstrate he would walk ten to fifteen paces and then challenge the kids to throw the baseball hard at him.  He would catch it – barehanded.  Lesson learned.

“Always look fastball.  If it breaks into a curve you can adjust.  If you’re looking curve a fastball will blow by you.  Go for line drives.  If in a slump – hit up the middle.  Popping up frequently – hit the top half of the ball.”

In his garage Mr. Hernandez rigged a tennis ball inside a sock tied to a string that was swinging from the rafter.  By tossing the ball away from you at one angle, it would come back towards you as an outside corner pitch.  Toss at a second angle and it would come back down the middle.  Another angle and you had your inside corner pitch to work on.  Great batting practice all by yourself for as long as you want.

Playing for Terra Nova High School in Pacifica I was already on the varsity as a sophomore.  I noticed the Frosh-Soph baseball coach was not playing Keith at first base.  Buddy Papadakis was at first base and tall, lanky and left handed he looked the model of a first baseman.  But Keith was a natural first baseman and had been groomed for that position since little league.  One day during practice I went to coach Miller and told him Keith was the better first baseman and should be playing at that position.  Coach Miller just shrugged his shoulders.

After Keith’s freshman year Mr. Hernandez sold his home in Pacifica and moved over the hill down the peninsula.  Keith spend his last three years as the star quarterback and outstanding first baseman for Capuchino High School in San Bruno.  I always wondered if this was the real reason Mr. Hernandez moved.  He couldn’t allow coach Miller to block Keith’s destiny.

I accepted a full ride baseball scholarship to UC Berkeley and during my freshman year Keith, a senior in high school, came out to watch us practice.  We sat down and talked.  He had a decision to make.  Go to Berkeley on a full ride baseball scholarship or enter the minor leagues.  He chose the minor leagues and fate was sealed.  Good choices bring good things.  Poor choices result in living the rest of your life in Podunk.  How well I know.

I hate my friend Rachel’s car.  It’s a Mercedes Jeep something.   You hop into it like you’re climbing into a stagecoach.  The seats are uncomfortable, you can’t see out the back window and must use a camera to see anything behind you.  Each time I enter it I remind Rachel we’re not traveling through the Sahara just the mean streets and highways of L.A.  But it’s a Mercedes and expensive and cool so you’re suppose to be impressed.  The only good thing about taking this monster anywhere is she isn’t making me climb into her Astin Martin.  Don’t even get me started on that one.  Oh what the rich find to waste their money on.  I’ve never quite understood why Jews buy Mercedes Benzes.  It’s as though they’re saying, “Yeah you almost killed us off but we not only survived but are rich again and now own you schmucks.”

Well my best friend Jim Emery called up and invited me to a house warming.  He and his wife Sheila bought a new home and just moved in.  Sheila is the creator and one of the producers of “The Dog Whisperer,” the hit television show on the National Geographic Channel.  Now they are enjoying the fruits of her labor.  Jim gives me an address in Norwalk.  “Where the hell is Norwalk,” I asked and thought why would anyone move there on purpose.  Now my best friend is living in this hinterland.  I bet he’s not going to be getting many visitors.

Apparently Norwalk is one of those outside civilization cities that surround L.A.  Either you live in Hollywood, West L.A., Santa Monica or if poor the San Fernando Valley.  Anywhere else is nowhere.  Yet the reality is Los Angeles is surrounded by a dozen smaller cities that we know exist only because of the signs on the freeway as we zip down to Orange County or San Diego.  Cities with names like Commerce, City of Industry, Santa Fe Springs and, alas, Norwalk.

Rachel puts the address in the beast’s navigation system.  Using the navigation system we barely find Norwalk and never did find my friend’s house.  I had to use a cell phone and ask for directions.  See what I mean about these strange, invisible cities outside civilization.

Jim was happy to see me because I rarely go to social functions.  Not my cup of tea.  Loner with a capital L.  The party is out back and all of Sheila’s friends and family are present.  I don’t loosen up until actor Bill Rose shows up accompanied by movie and television director and friend Charles Norton.  Now I have real people to talk to.  If show business people are real.  Maybe I have it backwards.  It’s just that show biz people are more interesting, more charming, more witty, more attractive, more more.

Rachel is tired and goes into the living room to rest on the couch.  I hope that’s the reason and not because she caught me dancing oh so slowly with a young nubile thing after I’ve told her a thousand times I don’t dance.  I had to get a few more feels in but eventually went looking for her and found her stretched out on the couch in deep conversation with The Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan.  Later she told me her husband hired Cesar to help them with their crazed German Shepherd Bonnie.

The best part of the evening was watching Millan interact with his attractive wife.  They’ve been married for years but the look in his eyes and respect and affection for his wife I haven’t seen in any male over the age of seventeen.  It was really nice to see that fame and money hasn’t made him crazy – yet.  I’m glad someone is having a happy ending.

Called to do background work on a television show I arrived at Manhattan Beach Studios at 3:00 p.m.  An afternoon call time means we’ll be shooting throughout the evening.  I was told by casting to bring a suit and I would be filming a courtroom scene.

After changing into my suit in a bathroom which we’re not suppose to do, I walked over to the holding room for background talent as we prefer to be called.  I noticed a very attractive blonde sitting in a chair in front of the security guard’s desk.  I took note how much she looked like Sharon Stone and as I passed her I realized, “That is Sharon Stone.”  She was on the phone speaking seriously and as the holding room was behind the security desk I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation. She insisted on speaking to the doctor claiming to be family.  The doctor came on the line and gave her the bad news.  Miss Stone then called the family member with the diagnosis.  She immediately began convincing this person they can beat whatever the affliction was and to start visualizing its destruction.

The conversation was becoming too personal and I removed myself from the room walking outside and crossing over to another stage.  I found craft services and helped myself to a cup of coffee.  Slowly I walked back hoping Miss Stone had finished her conversation.  As I got to the stage where we would be filming, Miss Stone lay prone on the top step crying her soul out in torment.  Why was no one helping her?  Disgusted, I put the coffee on the step and reached down to help her to her feet.  As our eyes met all the pain in the world came pouring out.  Just then her two female assistants grabbed Miss Stone, helping her up and bringing her to an empty room where she could grieve in private.  I entered the holding area and waited to be called to the set, thinking that would be the last we would be seeing of Miss Stone for the night.

Forty five minutes later we were called to the set and each background actor was placed throughout the courtroom.  Within minutes Sharon Stone arrived on the set.  I was shocked.  Her hair and makeup was perfect and her attitude was such that if you didn’t know you would never have guessed at the tragedy that had just befallen her.  She had put the bad news in a box and was ready to work.  A professional.  For the next six hours she filmed her scenes never missing a line, always in the moment, never complaining.  A female extra, overweight, had been standing for hours and was plainly exhausted.  Miss Stone noticed and commiserated with her.

I’ve always been impressed with Miss Stone’s beauty and sheer talent but that night I walked away impressed with her character.  Sharon Stone – last of the great broads.

One Sunday morning I was driving down Sherman Way in the Valley passing “Church on the Way” when I noticed a drop dead gorgeous blonde Viking queen walking toward the entrance.  Too young for me I thought, but isn’t everyone.  I made a U turn and drove into the Church parking lot.  She was beautiful and a Church girl.  An impossible combination to ignore and in this last decade in L.A. with the illegal alien invasion, finding a Caucasian girl is like stumbling across a long thought extinct species.  I entered the Church and began walking up and down the aisles looking for the Caucasian.  The preacher said something and the congregation started breaking into groups holding hands.  I kept searching.  A man pointed at me and beckoned me to join his group.  It was Pat Boone, the singer.  Holding hands in a circle each person took turns asking all of us to pray for divine intervention.  One man told of a family member with a terminal illness and asked us to pray for the family member.  The next man had a similar story and then the next.  Now my turn.  I looked up at Mr. Boone.  He nodded.  Bowing my head I asked God to help me find the blonde girl I had seen walking into the Church.  A cold silence was palpable.  After an uncomfortably long pause Mr. Boone spoke taking me off the hook.  “Lord, I don’t know if it’s your will that Mike meet the blonde girl…”

I went back two successive Sundays to try and meet the beautiful Church girl but it was complicated by the Church having two Sunday morning services and there were a whole lot of people.  I never did see her again.

What a fool I am.  No wonder I don’t have anything.

“You fat bitch.”  The middle school student was addressing his female PE coach who was taking attendance.  I was so angry I was tempted to pick the student up and toss him twenty yards to teach him some manners.  As a substitute teacher I was taking role of my own class which was seated next to hers.  There are 700,000 students in the Los Angeles Unified School District.  Only ten percent are Caucasian.  Seventy percent are Hispanic with most of these students being Mexican.  A direct result of the massive invasion of Mexican nationals pouring across our border illegally and settling in Los Angeles.

As class ended and the students were filing into the locker room, I entered the PE office with the female coach following close behind.  She locked the door, went to her desk, put her head down and started weeping.  For five minutes she cried and only when the bell rang signaling the start of the next class did she stop.  Lifting her head with tears streaming down her face she said, “I can’t stand the disrespect any longer.  I’m quitting teaching.”

I knew the statistics.  One third of all new teachers in LAUSD quit within three years.  Fifty percent resign within five years.  All because of student behavior.  Non white students behavior.  I asked how long she had been teaching.  She said, “Three years.”  Right on target, I thought.  She mentioned she had an interview next week at a middle school in Santa Clarita.  Santa Clarita is teacher code for “White Students” as Santa Clarita is a mostly Anglo suburb north of Los Angeles.  If she is offered the job she may stay in teaching but if not she’s quitting.

I was back at the school the following month.  In the faculty cafeteria I ran into the teacher.  She was positively beaming.  “I got the job in Santa Clarita.”  She told me she had to spend the day observing at the school where she interviewed.  While the regular teacher was taking attendance, “It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.”  I knew she was referring to the incident I had witnessed.  Because of LAUSD legal contractual restrictions she had to stay until the end of the school year before being granted parole.

I was happy for her.  Someone had escaped Devil’s Island.

A friend of mine, a high school English teacher with the Los Angeles Unified School District, asked me to substitute teach for her.  Teachers are given a one hour student free prep period each day and I took the time to read the student essays on the bulletin board.  These are the outstanding examples of the students work and the teacher had written “Excellent” and “Outstanding” across the top of their essays.  The writing was on a seventh grade level.  Granted, the school is ninety percent Mexican but these kids have been through elementary, middle school and now high school.

I called my friend that night and asked why she was lauding such mediocre work.  She said, “Michael, if I was to give the students the grades they actually earned I would be failing most of my students in all of my classes.  If I failed most of my students in all of my classes the principal would ask why all these students are failing.  He would then accuse me of being a bad teacher.  I’m not a bad teacher.  These are bad students.”

The truth is we don’t need better teachers.  We need better students.  The LAUSD is adamant about closing the so called “achievement gap” between the races.  There is no achievement gap.  There is however an “IQ gap” which in turn regulates academic achievement, conscientiousness and behavior.  Everyone knows this but it is the word that cannot be spoken.  IQ.

The implications of a majority non white semi illiterate population in the not too distant future is frightening.  We’re doomed.  Shop class anyone?

I spoke to producer Tom Danheiser on the phone and he asked me why he had never heard of me.  I told him I was content that citizens who absolutely must know the truth about the JFK assassination find my book and although I’m a terrific researcher and writer I’m not much of a salesman.  He enthusiastically told me to drop off my book and new RFK material at the radio station and I did so.  Never heard from him again.

Several months later I saw that George Noury, the host of Coast to Coast AM, was to make an appearance at the Conscious Life Expo at the Hilton near LAX.  I determined to meet him and hand him my book.  George arrived at the “meet and greet” as he calls it and addressed the crowd.  He really is quick on his feet and I enjoyed his witticisms as he played with the audience.  Afterward anyone wanting to meet him stood in line and I took my place.  I handed him a copy of my book and told him I was in contact with Sirhan Sirhan.  I suggested I be interviewed on his show as I had many new revelations about the RFK murder.  I saw producer Tom standing nearby getting a little nervous as it dawned on him who I was.  I added a friend of mine, Shane O’Sullivan of Great Britain, has a documentary and book coming out on the RFK assassination and they should interview him as well.  I could tell by their furtive glances they were aware of Shane and his projects.  I thanked Mr. Noury for his time and departed.

Nothing.  Never heard from George or Tom or anyone from Coast to Coast.  Mind you this is a radio program that interviews citizens who are in contact with extra-terrestrials including the dreaded Reptilian Species.  Anything but the truth, huh, George!  Nothing about Richard Helms organizing both Kennedy brothers murders and then handing CIA over to David Rockefeller and his economic elite thugs.  “Time Travelers” yes but nothing about three buildings in NYC collapsing when only two were struck by airplanes.  Plenty of ghost stories though.  Keep up the good work George.

Rachel and I agreed to meet in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood.  The Hollywood-Highland complex has abundant parking and Rachel coming from West L.A. and myself, the Valley, it’s a convenient compromise place to meet.  I haven’t told her what the surprise is because I’m disinclined to let my adversaries know any future time and place I might be.  There are reasons why I haven’t ended up like Lee Bowers and other Warren Commission witnesses.  Walking down Hollywood Blvd. in between dodging Superman, Batman, Marilyn Monroe and other celebrity look-alike street performers, I informed Rachel we were going to a lecture by Cathy O’Brien.  Cathy O’Brien claims to be a CIA mind control sex slave (MKULTRA) who escaped after she was no longer of use to CIA.  I had lent my copy of her book, “Transformation in America,” to Rachel and Rachel seemed fascinated.  I mentioned the lecture was being held in a Church and Rachel, being Jewish, I didn’t know if this was going to be a problem.  I asked her if she was going to burn up upon entering the Church.  “You mean like the witch in ‘The Wizard of Oz?’  No.”

We turned left on Highland and the Church about a block away warned evil in all its gothic splendor.  Each few steps I could feel Rachel’s apprehension increasing.  “This isn’t an intervention is it?” she said, partly in jest partly not.  I laughed.  The thought of Rachel being kidnapped by strangers and held for hours being told over and over of Jesus’s love and goodness caused me some mirth.  “No,” I assured her. Besides, if Rachel became a Jew for Jesus who would chastise me for giving money to the homeless or make me pick up change that has fallen from my pocket.  Oh well.  I guess there are reasons why she has money and I don’t.  Not this time, Rachel.  No intervention.

Upon paying our admittance fee and entering the Church, two tables filled with books greeted us.  Rachel and I, being able to read though we live in Los Angeles, gravitate toward books so we looked them over.  One table has Cathy O’Brien’s books, etc., and the other featured a book titled, “CIA Doctors,” which grabbed my attention.  The program had just started so we hurried into the Church proper and sat down in one of the back pews.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rachel taking in the interior of the Church – the impossibly high ceiling, medieval architecture, the large white cross behind the speakers’ platform.  You half expected Thomas Moore or, more appropriate, Jonathan Edwards to come out and scare the hell out of you with one of his fire and brimstone sermons.  Rachel seemed surprised and impressed.  Is that a little bit of awe I see in her eyes?  I realized this was her first time in a Church.  Yes, Rachel.  This is how the Goyim worship their Christ and God. I wondered what the inside of a Synagogue looked like.  Probably a table in the center with an open deck of cards.  “Anyone feel like being taken?  I mean playing a game of cards.”

Another speaker came on and addressed the crowd.  I know her.  Christine Blosdale.  Christine is a producer at the local Pacifica Public Radio Station.  I met her when trying to get on the show to talk about the RFK murder.  I didn’t get on the program but did give her a copy of my book, “JFK vs CIA.”  I excused myself telling Rachel I wanted to look over the books in the lobby but there was another reason.  A stunning young blonde, maybe twenty, was seated in a chair taking proceeds from book and merchandise sales.  I noticed her when entering the Church.  Dripping in beauty, irresistible, with a degree of beauty that leaves men speechless.  I had to have another glance before I died.  Picking up “CIA Doctors” I listened with my big ears to the conversation she was having with a man.  She too was a CIA mind control slave and when she realized what was happening she escaped, contacted Cathy O’Brien and then started working for her.  She could have told me she was from the planet “Dorf” and I would have believed her.  The “Presidential Model,” I could see it.  No man, politician or businessman, priest or cop could resist such beauty coming at him.  Let a few words from her mouth drop in your ears and you are through no matter how strong.  No matter how pure.  Game over.  CIA really knows what it is doing.  But this is not thirty years ago.  The game is still being played.  Obama is in deep shit, I thought.

I re-enter the Church proper and Roseanne Barr is speaking.  I wonder what the actress has to do with MKULTRA or if CIA tried to bring her under control as well.  Good luck with that.  She sure is enthusiastic about Cathy O’Brien and holding the government accountable.  Next came a presentation by Colin Ross, M.D., and author of “CIA Doctors.”  I paid strict attention.  One or more of these doctors programmed Sirhan.

After Cathy gave her speech Rachel and I headed for the lobby and tables.  I wanted to speak to Colin Ross but he was taking his sweet time getting to his table to sign books.  I told Rachel I wanted to say hi to Christine and went back inside to scout her out.  Rachel followed.  She never seems surprised by the people I know.  As Christine came up the aisle I stopped her.  I could tell she recognized the face but couldn’t put together the when or where.

“Mike Calder – JFK vs CIA,” I said, helping her.  She broke into a big grin.  “Oh yeah!  Your book is in my bathroom.”  Nice to know my book is used for distraction by guests in their time of need.

“I’d like to meet Dr. Ross.  Would you introduce us?”

“Sure,” she said.  “Hang out near the book table and I’ll go find him.”

Rachel and I headed back to the lobby with Rachel standing in line to meet Cathy O’Brien and I at Dr. Ross’s table.  I watched as Rachel evaluated Cathy as though she was figuring out a puzzle.  Is Cathy O’Brien real or not?  What tit bit can Rachel pick up that will help her make that determination?  Finally, Colin Ross shows up and begins signing books with Christine next to him.  I wait my turn.  He goes to sign my copy and I wave him off.  “In September I flew to New York and was debriefed by William Pepper, Sirhan Sirhan’s new attorney.  I know he is looking for someone qualified to interview Sirhan in prison.”  Dr. Ross either didn’t hear me or it didn’t register.  Annoyed, I repeated speaking slower and giving the brief version.  “I’m in contact with Sirhan Sirhan.”  Dr. Ross jumped to his feet.  “Sirhan’s new lawyer is looking for someone qualified in dissociative disorders, hypnotism and mind control to interview Sirhan in prison.  Do you know anyone who would be interested?”  Dr. Ross said, “I’m interested.”  I told him I would let Sirhan’s legal team know and if interested they would be in contact.  “Christine knows me,” I added and Christine started telling him about my book, etc.

Rachel and I left, headed back to Highland and Hollywood.  I walked her to valet parking and waited until her Mercedes was brought around.  She hopped in as I waved goodbye, then I proceeded down the escalator where the peons park their cars.  Finding my fading 96 Hyundai accent and checking that I had the ten dollar parking fee, I made my escape heading back to North Hollywood, home of would-be actors and half the population of Michoacan, Mexico.