Activism in 1981 - Mt. Diablo Anti-Nuclear Power Protest

Click on the image above and take special notice of how this does not look like a criminal being
arrested, but rather as an indidual that is proudly and triumphantly making a stand for what
she believes is what is best for humanity. Many that were arrested that day were incarcerated
for several months, including those that were there from the Modesto Peace/Life Center.

Arrested the same day I was in 1981 at one of the largest protests to ever hit California - the Mt. Diablo anti Nuclear Power Protest - I think I had just turned 15 years old at the time.

Also arrested that day were the late Jim Higgs and Sam Tyson of the Modesto Peace/Life Center as well as other heroic activists from Modesto that took the time to pause and think about those that had nothing to do with them whatsoever.


My biggest hero at this time though was someone who chose to protest just as heroically in other ways and not be arrested - Sandy Sample, also of the Modesto Peace/Life Center. One of the most enduring influences in my life at this time that showed just how strong a woman can be by standing up to the then board of the Peace/Life center declaring the truth - her importance in the struggle despite the choices she makes for the same outcome.







Copyright 2012 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Nothing Changes On New Years Day

Don't Forget To Pay For That Donut!

I didn’t see the roosters as I passed by the fork this morning, although a few hours earlier, at about three, roosters could be heard from all around, walking through the Modesto Airport District(1).

It was like they were calling to each other, back and forth in turn. One could almost reach out and touch their grandiose plans of having the Modesto Airport District completely dominated by fowl at the crack of the true dawn. A rooster revolution of sorts. Plotted through their hidden language.

I was so impressed with them, that I have decided to forego any rants that I would care to indulge regarding the avian flu and weak county interventions for personal aviaries of fowl. I will let these brave birds have their hope. Unless the economy doesn’t turn around, at which point I may be charged with chicken rustling.

Yet in the morning, seeing lush fields of chickens starting about their foraging day is just so invigorating on my slight trek to the start of my day. Especially when they are in the street and I start chasing them to and fro across the road. One really has to be aware of traffic when…chicken spotting.

Walking through chalk lines, some real - some imagined, I would think that others like myself would care to take comfort in the luxurious safety of good scenery.

So that in the midst of a dozen, obviously robustly large roosters planning some sort of a…coo - a master plan, if you will, of domination.

Just the energy of being within that interchange, while some guy that lives in what appears to be an RV has an exploding bonfire going in a burning barrel. A different scent every night, or should I say, “every wee morning”.

On some of these wee mornings, he incinerate particles board. Bonfire fuel acquired by chopped up furniture abandoned in another lot made vacant by Strand/Depot(2) type developer arson.

The formaldehyde fills my senses like Testers model glue in a plastic bag. At any moment I begin picturing myself writhing and twirling, while lying perpendicular to and abutted to the gutter of the sidewalk surrounding the county park.

Only the menthol provides any relief. And the coffee.(3)

Coffee acquired at the Vietnamese refuge camp, we are now not suppose to talk about or advertise for. I suppose something came over the wire. Of course all of this information comes from Chin. The one that says I eat like a cat. The one with that birth mark that looks just like a tattoo one would get for killing someone in a Vietnamese prison.

The same tattoo that she didn’t want to talk about anymore(4), not more than just a few morning ago(5) she dared point to it and made some vague reference to the hard life that she endured, trapped in a Vietnamese prison. But one knows that she is safe now in the confines of a Vietnamese refugee camp disguised as the Ye Olde Donute Shoppe.

It’s not a refuge for everyone though. That was finally decided when the latrine was redone in tile and the very best in bathroom fixtures. It must be part of the Asianic cultural reaction to disrespect from a community that completely thrashed the bathroom to the point of necessitating it’s complete replacement. Everything.

“Pollo.” She whispered.(6) “I go into bathroom today and people have sex in there.”

“What? Seriously? That’s horrible. I keep telling you. Just don’t let anybody use it. They can go to Jack in the Box.”, I replied, six years ago. That was before the re-model.

And a year or so after someone committed suicide in the Jack in the Box bathroom. Now they have to “buzz” you in.

Today, on any shift, they refuse no one. Most of the time they don’t have to, since the bathroom is occupied by families shooting up heroin they acquired from just around the corner. It’s so heart warming to see a mother pushing a stroller, accompanied by her older offspring - scurrying into the Jack in the Box bathroom to inject herself with heroin and nod out in a bathroom stall for an hour or so.

“Um, can you buzz me in?”

“Sure, go right ahead.”

That was the same family that approached every single one us, one morning - pimping out her oldest child to panhandle change for his mother’s heroin fix.

“Hey can I use your bathroom? I need to change my baby.” The zombie mother asked Chin.

“You want to use the bathroom? OK. You can use the bathroom. I will go and unlock it for you and you can go use the bathroom.”, Chin chipped into the undead whore of heroin and mother of three.

“SSSS - hey!”, I side whispered to the Mother Teresa of Vietnam.

“What what what is it?”

“Don’t let them use the bathroom.” I silently said, yet ever so sternly, while vigorously shaking my head back and forth.

“Pollo! She needs to change the baby. You can’t expect her to go Jack in the Box. That too far.”

And with that, it was not long until loud knocks were to be heard.

“Hey! What you do in my bathroom?! You need get out now! Pollo. Man. You were right. Why I not listen to you.”, Chin said to me, her hair unusually ratted out as though it had been styled that way, when in reality, it was from the sheer stress of the entire family having locked themselves in the bathroom for nearly five whole minutes now.

“Just give her a few more minutes to finish shooting up and she might be easier to get out.”, I said, as though I were giving report to a general regarding enemy troop alignment.

“Shoot up?! What you mean Pollo?!”

“Nothing. Nothing. Here, I’ll take care of it.”

And with that I was once more overcome by an air of exaggerated over bearing maniacal role play as I cast the family into the cold dampness of the street.

“And stay there….bitch.”

Coming back into my Morelia(7) fold, I am able to fill in half a dozen people with the situation’s past, present and probable future in less than 30 seconds. After all, I have to get to work. I can’t just sit here all day talking about some junky mother shooting up with her kids watching locked up in a bathroom of a Vietnamese Refugee Camp overtaken by Mexicans. Even the Vietnamese refugees have to adapt.

It’s the perfect backdrop for my budding Spanish - Vietnamese refugees aggressively trying to keep dozens of Mexicans at bay with dirty Mexican words screamed with Vietnamese accents. It’s really special when Chin starts waving around her Babe Ruth slugger and threatening to kill everyone if they don’t provide her with enough session money for a Black Oak Casino(8) weekend.










1. For the lone traveler through the internet that may have no interest here….this is a private article. Be gone with you - NOW! To feather dust.
2. Two Modesto, California historical monuments that didn’t have to pass the giggle test of any landmark preservation laws, state or federal due to arson by local developers.
3. Coffee so good, it deserves to be my hook lead in. Keep reading.
4. When they, “arrested the man and the girl”.
5. Or more.
6. Like, “psssst”.
7. A group of approximately 36 rotating Mexican friends, all quickly claiming to be born within an eagles nest at the very top of the tallest mountain in Morelia, Mexico.
8. Actually, it was at Jackson Rancheria Casino that I was accused of eating like a cat. At a buffet, it was. And upon further recollection, it was actually her husband that accused me of that, after seeing my self-made sampler plate with only 3 items from the entire buffet. That’s right. He had to drive us back in my van to the David Bowie’s Low album that night.






Copyright 2012 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

KARI ABBEY JUSTIFIED IN DEFENDING HERSELF AND HER FAMILY!!!!

Today, December 19th 2011 was the final closing arguments in the preliminary hearing for the People VS. Kari Abbey. It was requested of me by the defense to be there and bear witness to what many of us thought was going to be a travesty of justice.

Chief Deputy District Attorney Dave Harris, of Scott Peterson murder case fame, started things off with a litany of charges.

Barely audible, he sat and muttered from his chair like a reluctantly false prophet.

He said all of the evidence showed that Rita Elias was an actual tenant of the house - that it was her home. He referred to the actual tenant of the dwelling as her roommates who were “trying to evict her”.

Harris painted a picture of Abbey going to the house which was apparently where Rita “lived” with several large males, including Abbey’s husband, Benny Taylor. Inferring that Abbey entered the house, dragged Rita Elias out by her hair and beat the hell out of her on the front porch.

Then, Harris went on with his colorful strokes at the truth, that Rita was forced back into the house by Abbey’s father threatening her with further “beating” by Abbey. A house which had no phone. “Rita Elias had no way to call 911” - “Kari Abbey used her status as a police officer as a weapon”.

Most of Harris’ citations were sensationalized to the point of ridiculousness and contradiction of testimony given by the same witnesses he attempted to cite - and most of these were Proposition 115 hearsay testimony by cops.

His opening statement was actually rather short, but effective enough to give anyone who may be the first to hear of it the impression that Kari Abbey was a crazed criminal - an extortionist that surrounded herself with overgrown family members, pumped up on steroids, all in an attempt to extract money from people and throw them out of their “home”.

Over and over again he used expressions to seemingly flesh out what had already been determined by Sheriff Adam Christianson, himself, as an obvious act of self defense by inserting falsehoods in the form of expressions misplaced within his dialogue - “forced entry” - “We’re gonna get money or get’ em out” - “They went there to throw these people out into the street” - “She severely beat Rita Elias” - “She ripped off the county”.

Then it was Abbey's defense attorney Michael Rains’ turn to speak. As though his knees were about to buckle under his very own weight, Rains pushed himself up from the table, where he sat next to Kari Abbey.

“Your honor….In this case, the entire judicial system is on trial. If there was ever a case where a crafty DA will re-construct the law to turn absolute self-defense into a murder charge - this is the case. Right here.”

Rains went on to cite those things that we do not hear from the Modesto Bee’s puppet reporters. Things such as the shooting actually not happening at the doorway where Rita Elias was “staying for a couple of days at a time” but up to seventy feet from there outside. And that at no time was there forcible entry, because Kari Abbey never stepped foot into the house.

He went on to point out the obvious. That despite facts, testimony or any reality whatsoever, Harris and his press hungry DA crew were going to do whatever it took to paint Kari Abbey as a terrible landlord, a terrible cop, a horrible mother and a horrible person - a real “killer”. A roided-out monster.

Rains went on to recite preceding testimony that Rita Elias was really not a tenant at this house at all. Especially in consideration of the testimony from the actual residents saying that for the most part Rita Elias was homeless, staying there for a few days and then leaving for long periods, living most of the time as a squatter in abandoned homes.

And then Rains went on to make several other pertinent points that Crafty Harris had done everything he could to keep hidden:

1. The United States postal service had no record of Rita Elias ever living there.

2. That Abbey did not come to the house unexpected, that she was there by appointment. An appointment derived from two previous telephone conversations with the actual tenants of the dwelling and was led to believe by them that she was there to collect rent.

3. That the actual tenants were three weeks late on the rent.

4. That Harris was severely amiss in his citation of the law, accusing Abbey of failing to provide 24 hour advance notice, because this only applies to actual entry of the dwelling, which though inferred by Crafty Harris, was simply not the case, as Abbey never entered the residence, nor ever intended to. She was simply there to collect rent according to arrangements that had previously been made by the actual tenants of the dwelling (the ones that also were trying to get Rita Elias to leave).

5. That Rita Elias was under the influence of methamphetamine, had been without sleep for several days, and according to actual testimony, had a tendency to violence and agitation.

6. That the back pack and purse that were found at the scene was in actuality all of the belongings that Rita Elias owned, including clothes and toiletries.

7. That some of the evidence, particularly that evidence that Crafty Harris put forth as the child endangerment charge - three firearms found in the house of Kari Abbey, had been tampered with and was obvious by an examination of the photos.

8. That despite assertions by Crafty Harris, no key to the dwelling was found belonging to Rita Elias. Rita would come and go through a side window in the house - even against the wishes of the actual tenants.

9. Despite the perjury committed by Crafty Harris, Benny Taylor was nowhere to be found in the incidents discussed that lead to the death of Rita Elias.

10. Kari Abbey had left her car running. The car that contained her two young children.

11. Any blunt force trauma was not necessarily a result of the fight between Rita Elias and Kari Abbey. Even the coroner’s report regarding hair having been pulled out was suspect, since there was no hair found in the area.

12. Rita says to Kari Abbey, “If I didn’t have high heels on, I’d kick your ass”. Later Rita Elias took off her high heels.

13. That Rita Elias said directly to Abbey, “Fuck it, I’m going to go get my gun”.

14. It was impossible to look through the windows as they are “sheeted up”.

15. That according to testimony provided by Modesto Police Department Officer George Papadopoulos, there may or may not have been rounds in the chamber. That he folded under cross examination and that it was from this ambiguous recount of his that the Child Protective Services investigator derived their information.

16. That the children were not in the house, because they stayed in another part of the property with their grandparents, and if at any time they were near the firearms that there was an adult right there that would have prevented the children from having any contact with the weapons.

17. That the Modesto Irrigation District electric bill that had been submitted so proudly by the prosecution as proof that Kari and Benny were financing a “grow operation” actually turned out to be at the wrong address and bearing the wrong utility company.

18. That the two customer service officers that had worked for Kari in the past, may have worked with her long before Kari began to “amass this vast apartment empire across the city”.

In closing, Kari Abbey’s defense attorney insulted the Stanislaus County Court system by calling out to what many of us have come to believe is the common practice of perjury by both police officer and DA across the country, but according to Rains, the severity of Stanislaus County for running innocents through the “meat grinder of false justice” is proficient here and he had never seen anything like it.

A closing statement?

Looking right at Crafty Harris, he said in no mild mannered tone, “I smell a rat. It has a SERIOUS stench.”

Once again, Crafty Harris got his opportunity to earn his tax paid exuberant salary to propel himself into another Scott Peterson type fame scenario.

He went over every charge with the same drivel packed litany as he exposed of himself in his opening statement. Mostly relying on what is obviously his primal nature of laziness, on Proposition 115 hearsay testimony as “factual”.

He re-iterated the constant borage of misleading expressions - “forced entry” - “beaten” - “They went there to evict and get money”, etc.

What I personally thought was the most disgusting thing that this moronic excuse for a man proposed, was that the situation was actually reversed, and that if the gun had been real, that Rita Elias would be justified in shooting Kari Abbey in self defense. Of course the moron was still thinking that everyone was still buying his “Hang Kari Abbey” portrait.

You know the one by now. The one with Abbey snarling. The blood, the wads of Rita Elias’ hair in Kari’s claws. Kari “forcing entry” into the “home” of Rita Elias. But of course, what can you expect from your DA (Crafty Harris) that will say that “a little meth is no big deal“.

And with that, your overpaid and over fed pig of a District Attorney, Mr. Crafty, glanced at the clock, probably panicking that he might be missing a lunch date with one of our illustrious and oh so trusty Defense/Conflict attorney’s to dispose of a young black man’s life while sucking on an olive and dreaming of an oncoming election year.

With that, the proceedings fell back into the Judge’s court. I don’t believe that any of us in the courtroom were expecting him to arrive at a decision regarding the case so quickly, as he began by saying, “I have carefully studied the evidence of this case.”

One by one, now the presiding judge of this case went over each count. Citing the reasons for each decision for each account, every single one was going to stick, until he got to the fifth one, receiving stolen property. No evidence and the only person that could provide sufficient testimony has passed away.

On the charges of murder and manslaughter?

He held up the picture of the BB gun that Rita Elias used to threaten the life of Kari Abbey, and as far as Abbey was concerned - Abbey’s children as well. Then he held up a picture of a 1911 .45 caliber. No difference really. No reason for Kari Abbey to believe any differently than there was an actual gun being pointed at her and that she had no choice but to defend herself. In addition to meeting the requirements necessary to demonstrate self defense, Kari Abbey was justified in the shooting of Rita Elias. Therefore, there would be no grounds for trying Kari Abbey for the shooting whatsoever.

If it is so easy to charge a beautiful and caring Stanislaus County Sheriff Deputy with the murder of a tweaked out junky criminal like Rita Elias, why does it seem so hard to charge Harris, Jacobson and Bunch with the murder of District Attorney Nate Baker?

Since we have seen a glimmer of justice for Innocent Kari Abbey today, maybe we can soon see the end of these pathetic individual’s careers before they destroy anyone else’s lives on their insatiable hunger for the Modesto Bee’s favored lime light.

















Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Happiness Is A Warm Gun

FOX 40 Coverage - Community Activist Says Police Didn't Use Enough Force

The Modesto Police Department - A Dissapointment

On December 2nd 2011 at approximately five o’clock in the evening, I was standing outside, of the Modesto Airport Business District‘s, Kano‘s Smoke Shop.

A man walked past me, throwing me what I thought to be some bizarre gang sign. A sign that I did not recognize.

No more than moments after the man walked into the store, I heard him belligerently call out the young Mexican that was behind the counter that day for not speaking in a gangster Spanglish dialect more fitting to the area of Modesto we were in. Although, of course not one of the half dozen present in the shop at the time had any gang affiliation whatsoever.

I walked in to see what the problem was, as it quickly became obvious that something was not right with this individual. With two young men standing behind the man, there did not seem to be anything to worry about and I figured that the guy would soon be leaving, if not from the pure intimidation of the two guys behind him, then perhaps because the transaction would be over and he would just go on about his business.

I went back to where I was standing, on the sidewalk just in front for the smoke shop as the commotion inside the store became louder.

I went in, once more to see that the young man behind the counter had piled the counter with blunt wraps - cigar wrapping paper predominately used to roll large amounts of marijuana joints - I.e. “blunts”. Still I felt that everything was under control with the people that were in the shop.

Returning to the front of the store, I pulled out another cigarette as an excuse to stay and wait for the individual to leave, at which point I could rest assured that everything was all right with the store and the occupants therein.

Suddenly, the two young men that had been standing behind the man in the store ran past me quickly, crossing the street like jack rabbits. Then another three individuals that I had not known were in the store ran out in the same fashion, going the opposite direction of the first two.

It was at this point, that the only two individuals left in the store, were the kid behind the counter and the perpetrator. As I walked up to the door, I heard yelling and crashing, and as I stepped beyond the threshold of the doorway, I caught site of the young Mexican behind the counter and then I heard a single gun shot and the kid looked as though he had fallen forward and out of my sight, beneath the counter. I thought for sure he had been shot.

Now, probably due to the adrenaline, I intended to rush the individual with the gun and disarm him, yet the next thing I knew, the cashier was standing before me, grabbing my jacket and pulling me out of the store with him as he began to flee the premises.

He let go and took off down the street with me chasing after him, shouting out, “Are you ok? Are you shot? Are you shot?” and at the same time, dialing 911 on my cell phone.

To which he turned around and said, “No, I’m fine. I‘m not shot. Call 911! Call 911!” And then he turned and ran away from me, down the street.

The 911 call connected me to an operator that allowed me to take the time to describe the situation. When I was done, the operator said, “Let me transfer you to the police.” And then I waited for several rings, keeping a constant watch on the smoke shop. The perpetrator was still inside.

The family and friends of a piñata store were gathered outside to see what the commotion might be. I ran to them and herded them into the store - “Get inside and lock yourself in the store! Get inside and lock yourself in the store!” And they did so quite expediently.

Then, on the next block, almost next door to the smoke shop, I saw another business owner, wheeling a dolly out front to move a refrigerator back into the building for the night. It was obvious that he was completely oblivious to the situation that had and was still transpiring. “Get inside and lock yourself in! Get inside and lock yourself in!” I shouted, while charging toward him.

The 911 call seemed to be going nowhere. The dispatcher kept asking me for the street address of the business. As though I were reporting suspicious activity after the fact. As though she had no intention to do anything, such as send any officers out unless I provided a specific address. I ended the call abruptly and with much impassioned vulgarity while going on to keep many from trying to go into the smoke shop thinking it was still open for business as usual at that time.

Eventually one officer in one car arrived and parked at the opposite end of the block. I ran up to him as he was getting out of the car and then led him to the front of the Smoke Shop building. All the while, I am stressing to him the gravity of the situation, being that a man was inside the store with a gun.

“Did you see the gun? How do you know there’s a gun?” He incessantly asked the entire way, without drawing a weapon. For a moment, I wondered if I would have to restrain the officer from entering the establishment, when just then, the perpetrator came out of the store holding a plastic bag and a large machete, at which point, the officer drew his gun, then ordered the man to drop “the knife” and then ordered the man to get on the ground - face down. He then ordered the man to put out his arms, extended from his body and keep them there.

Multiple other officers arrived then and one officer kept watch with a hand tazer, while officers began looking throughout the store for a gun, several asking me, “Was there a gun? Did you see a gun? Do you think he might have dropped it somewhere?”

Some time later the officer with the hand tazer attempts to handcuff the individual on the ground and then the first of three separate “scuffles” with the suspect ensued.

After being unsuccessfully tazed by the first officer, holding the device to the man’s neck, several other officers got involved to hold the man down and cuff him. It was at this point the officers found the gun. It was in the front waistband of the suspect. If he wasn’t so inebriated there is a good chance officers would have been injured by gunshot rather than a sprain and a few nicks on a hand.

It was as though the officers had never been trained. It’s one thing to take down a combative, elderly homeless man already subdued by alcohol poisoning, but it is quite another to confront a real dangerous criminal.

One would think that the appropriate thing to do, would have been to handcuff and search the suspect right away, rather than putting it off to look about the crime scene for a gun, they never were too sure existed in the first place.

After the dust settled, the incident became even more bizarre as later I walked back over to the Smoke Shop to see what, if any progress had been made to contact the owner of the store, so that he could come and lock it up. Upon approach of the business, I saw another employee there. Not the same employee that had been involved in the altercation, but another, of a completely different nationality.

Statements had been given by at least three witnesses, including myself, all of which informed the police taking the statements, that the employee was Latino. This particular employee was Asian, and from the prompting of his employer, Kano, informed the police and conducted a full interview as though he were the actual victim. I was completely unaware that this had happened and said something immediately to the employee that was a clear indication to two officers that the actual victim was someone entirely different. They confronted me with this fact in the presence of the other employee and other onlookers and then ordered me into the store.

An argument between me and the officers ensued, in which I explained my position in the community and the problems that I constantly face as being perceived as law enforcement already. That I felt it was not appropriate for them to confront me in public regarding the additional crime that was just committed by the other employee - providing false information to a police officer/obstruction of justice.

They had the video of the event, statements from other witnesses, which obviously they were not privy to, and were completely convinced that the employee that couldn’t seem to locate the keys to the store was the victim involved.

Further, they took the employee to the hospital to identify the perpetrator, which of course the employee said, was not the one.

The Modesto Police Department does a good job of keeping up appearances. After this event, I have decided to acquire a firearm and think twice next time before I put any officers in unnecessary danger by asking them to respond to a crime.

I suggest you do the same.

It is little wonder that the Modesto Police Department shoots and kills innocent people. They are easy game.















Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

The REAL Voice of Modesto!

It is finally here Modesto. A place where you can say what you like, what you wish and what you will. This truly is the REAL Voice of Modesto. Click on the image above to blog in freedom from religious prosecution.

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Dog Day Afternoon

“As it would certainly seem to seem as of late, not so many things are quite as dull as one would most likely prefer. Not here anyway.”

                             Robert Stanford answering any question posed.

There was a time, of course, that walking through the Airport District was a myriad of gunfire and dog barks/bites. Pepper spray was certainly a must have. A quick car and path to the Memorial Emergency Room for pit bull victims (always children). The Grand Am I had at the time, did the job well.

It did not take too much education to make this entire situation subside. Especially in consideration that for the entire County of Stanislaus, the Modesto Airport District had the highest amount of animals sent to the gulags of the Stanislaus County Animal Control (We don’t call it the “humane society” anymore, of course).

And then there was that time, not so long ago, that I lost a pit bull to a kidnapping and then it was used for training a fighting dog, all for the purpose of killing my dog. I think this was some sort of a gang assault against me, but the children that witnessed it said nothing about that per say. Of course, to avoid any legal entanglements like a possible 187 charge for either one of us, I just don’t go there. In any way.

Though I do often use my snitch abilities to report illegal dog breeding and fighting, but it is just not as satisfying as a sawed off shot gun would seem to be.

And of course that’s where it starts. Local feuds and fights over dogs and dog fights. That’s just life in the Modesto Airport District. For pit-bulls and those that love them or use them.

I did not raise mine to fight. But I guess that is all over now, what with the presumptuousness of the tweaked out natives of the Modesto Airport District and their dog-fighting heritage.

Why shouldn’t they have the right to steal my dog and use it for live training bait for a gun-powder fed, hard ran dog raised for nothing more than an illegal activity so many seem to overlook as an infraction here in Stanislaus County?

I was once mauled by four pit-bulls in the street, one morning. Like a pack of demons - lovingly cuddly and soft puppies came out of the middle of nowhere and seduced me into dropping to my knees to embrace them on the side of the road, with the foreboding thought on my mind, “Oh God, now they are all going to be following me.”

And then of course, there was that time I found myself on my knees once more, gently head butting a cat on the sidewalk. I turn my head to notice an MPD officer shaking his head and grinning at me. I would have waved, but that does not go over to well in the area. The affiliation with law enforcement is frowned upon by many, mostly the white residents, such as the multi-generational corn fed speed freaks that kidnapped my dog to feed it to theirs.

But there are enough of them that I have to work with, that I try to keep any type of a law enforcement affiliation on the “down low”. Now that I work out of a bail bonds company in the Modesto Airport District, this problem is fading as well as they are better able to peg me now, as opposed to before, when they were mostly overcome with confusion when I told them that I was not a social worker, but would not describe myself any further than using the words activist, advocate, sponsor, etc.

It’s also one of the primary defense points showing it’s true colors regarding Stanislaus County Sheriff Deputy Investigator Kari Abbey’s falsely received assertions from fringe media, not even pervasive in the community, that under the color of law, she exercised unfair advantages over tenants that lived in this same area. This would be virtually impossible, and as an officer, herself, well known to her, that it would more than likely constitute recklessness to the point of suicide by gang if she was to openly flaunt to her tenants that she was affiliated with law enforcement. But like the rest of the general public, you may not have been aware of that.

I have had countless violent encounters with dogs in the Airport District, generally in the early hours of the morning. It did not take me long to learn that the trick to surviving an attack by an animal, is the ability to appear to that animal to be so menacing that they feel like they would have no chance, thereby running away from you, rather than you running away from them. That and a hot cup of coffee works pretty good too.

The Modesto Airport District as of 2004 through 2005 is mostly comprised of Mexicans now. A much healthier and positive culture than the red-necked corn fed NAZI speed freaks that previously dignified the primary demographic of the Modesto Airport District, no matter how humble their dust-bowl fashioned beginnings may seem to be by any, including myself.

But I still miss my dog.







Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

The New Vote No On Carmen Sabatino For District 3 Website!

Click On The Image Above To Visit Carmen Sabatino's New Website!

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

When it's Christmas out in Ho Chi Minh

Robert Stanford reporting live, from the Modesto Airport Business District.




Thus the story so far….

So the flower shop across the street has now disbarred me from boutiqing1, I am quite sure. It is a combination of the words “kidnapping” and “extortion” that they cannot seem to get past.

Either that, or the older man of the shop is quite shaken, scared and all the more offended, after I chased after him one day, in a performance designed to dissuade those that would defecate along the back doors of the office. Perhaps it was a mistaken identity, but either way, a shortcut to where again?

But that’s just what happens when you walk out onto the stage of that kind of a reality. You just don’t know what you will find. What you will face. Many assumptions will be made of involuntary necessity of survival. Depending on the situation of course. Or not.

And in the seemingly newly dedicated way, the “Mission District” has set about building up within their few city block domain. King of the homeless problem. Expanding the detox center - new life for good people. Well “Praise the Lord”.

I wanted to get some pictures, but the abatement crew that came to abate the asbestos in the building ruined my best shots. Who do I sue?

Interesting, the struggles the Modesto Union Gospel Mission has endured under the felinity and circumspect attacks of the La Loma Neighborhood Association’s assault upon the homeless in a Melville storyline manner with Mike Moradian at the helm. No matter, though. Just another contestant for the Robert Stanford Local Celebrity Death Pool.

I even have it figured out what I shall stamp in blood red letters across his apple pie face. I was going to use it for Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Kenneth Tam, but thought better to bite my tongue for the time being, in favor of coming back later for Tam with some interactive video of a rape scene from the movie Pulp Fiction. Therefore, I find it comforting and satisfying to use it to brand Mike Moradian’s portrait - FAGGOT.

It would seem that the Voice of Modesto's very own Less Nesman, Emerson Drake, has left the building, never to be heard from again? It’s all hush hush and on the Q-T - like that police report the publisher filed on his laptop and precinct lists. I certainly hope that when I am old and decrepit, that I do not see middle aged men as nothing more than a group of juvenile delinquents that neer do well, not paying attention to me in my poli-sci class. Mindy should really put him in a home now.

And of all days to day. I cannot get the thought out of my mind of carmen, standing there, with the Modesto Bee in one hand and holding his weenie in the other.

Probably because he will be sporting a hot-dog cart at his makeshift Italian diner hustling for votes with party poppers and kazoos - complete with a coned party hat that is just 10 sizes to small for him……..it’s his birthday after all. Today is the day2.

Of course what do I know, if I were still in the running for mayor, I would probably be selling out gay hot weenies at the Brave Bull trying to makes sure the marriage equality vote knew I was firmly in their corner. I figure they would just go along with the rest. Especially after those weenies. I know Kasey would let me do a Donna Summer DJ session if I showed up in drag. Or not.

Walking around the corner the other day, suddenly everything became unfamiliar and dark as the wind blew about handbills of announcement that only jimson root could tell. And an old lady with large hairs growing from her chin looked up from the cumbersome misused baby stroller and cackled, “How cum yoo not in jaaayle?”

I said nothing. I just kept trying to wake up and then I saw him. The old man that had once been so friendly now peeked up and over at me as he scurried inside to the safety of his building to be warm and protected from two words - “kidnapping” and “extortion”.

To get to the Vietnamese refugee camp or home, I have to cross in front of the Modesto Union Gospel Mission. Tempestuous it is. Once having to walk home from work crippled by my very shoes, I limped across the fresh tarmac, yet stopped midway. I looked down and took off the shoes that tortured me so. As I looked up and over, I saw a young man grinning at me. Or so I thought. I did not have my glasses and he was far too away for me to see. There may have not been anyone there at all.

“You’re quite an interesting character.” The youthfully beaming apparition said to me. Or not.

“Yeah, why is that?” I asked sharply, as though I had several cars to be lubing in Brooklyn, all the while, proceeding to take off my socks.

“You just are. You work at that bail bonds place, don’t you?”

“Why?”, I hissed. “What do you want?”

“Nothin, I just….”, and with that I briskly stormed away from him, unencumbered by ill fitting shoes as though I was born to walk through the Modesto Airport District without fear of neither needle, metal or glass.

Tonight the Brown Shirt NAZI guards of the Modesto Gospel Mission were even farther away. To me it looked as though they were rising up, preparing to shoot me down with .22 cal. pistols and then proceed to call animal control for a “pick up”. Or not.

Maybe they would whisk my body into the building and feed me to the homeless. One could only hope, considering the five million dollars they brought in for the year 2010, the gruel they currently serve those unfortunate enough to have to endure the sacrifice of their very Constitutional rights for a partial portion of a disgusting meal.

Here. You can have mine.

No, no. I’ll be allright (live longer). Cigarette?

Ducking into the safety of the Vietnamese refugee camp, it is in and of itself, the perfect camouflage. The perfect cover. The perfect disguise. Where everyone knows your name. Well, my name at least.

“Pollo. So they away take the man and the girl?”

“Everyone is out now. Yeah. But it’s all political. You know. Like in Vietnam.”

“I not joking now. You need be serious. I worry about you. You be careful.”

“It’s all political. Seriously. Everything is fine - they are lying in the newspaper”

“You want coffee Pollo?”

“Yes, please. You know, I would love some coffee. Some coffee would be great. Thank you. Yes. Coffee. Coffee coffee coffee”

The Vietnamese Refugee camp is on the Yosemite Boulevard, which is just a fancy name for a short stretch of the 132 interstate.

And here, along that interstate in this God Forsaken valley is this place. A place where Vietnamese hospitality is taken advantage of as though it were franchised.

A refuge from the rain, the cold, your problems or the police.

Not from me though.

I saw her grinning twice as wide today, from in the back of the camp, in the kitchen. It was the Den Mother. “Hi Pollo!”. Obviously relieved that I was not arrested and taken to jail along with “the man and the girl”. “You OK?”

“It’s political. It’s all political. You know, like Vietnam.”

“Pollo!” The other one snapped, “We not from Vietnam. We Cambodian.”

“Same thing. I saw Apocolypse Now.” I said smugly, as though I was tossing imaginarily long locks of hair across my other shoulder.

“What? What Pollo?”

“It’s a movie. It’s about the war.”

“Oh, the war. I little girl then. That long time ago. You want donut, Pollo? I give to you.”

“He don’t need more donut. He get fat now!” The Den Mother said, upon coming across to the counter to join us. “You OK?”

“I’m fine. Really. And so are they. This is not what they tell you it is. It is totally different”

“You promise? You don’t want donut? I sorry for what I said. You not fat. You need more more donut!!!”

Our laughter chimed as a reminder to me that everything was meant to be the way it is today, despite how uncertain it might seem all too often. As though there is no use to resist and fight for the preservation of moments such as these. Right Here. Right Now - a refuge. A home. A place free from those that would enslave, imprison and kill us without any recourse to the law for us.

Just like Vietnam.



1. Sorry, it was unspellable.

2. Actually, I wrote that last week. So it’s really not his birthday today. And yes he is still alive. But I got fifty says he won’t make to election - ricket’s - they move fast.




Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Sabatino and Stanford truly are The Pimp and the Bitch

From beneath the satin sheets of Drama ….The pimp hit’s the snooze bar once more, so the Little Bitch will have to tell the tale….







nar·cis·sism - Carmen Sabatino

 The investigative arm of the Voice of Modesto Blog has been chopped off in a tizzy of a tantrum. According to sources very close to the doldrums of the Med, Emerson Drake refused to be subjugated any further by the gout ridden mongrel and was ejected from the pseudo-Italian diner.

Without Emerson Drake, and his contributions, it’s just another bi-monthly e-zine with a repetitive menagerie of vendetta sized nips from a self centered, fat bastard that is likened to a dispassionate Chihuahua crossed with deformative consequences by a Pit Bull.







But Carmen doesn’t need his right arm, now that he has his latest and greatest, Athens Abell to do his bidding.


Oh, but wait, what’s this? She’s catching on? Smart girl! But as she watches everyone go to the wayside of Carmen preparatory wake, she must know that the next radio voice that walks in may steal the show from her. Not that she has that much of it now - Carmen makes sure of that by bring back around his ancient history every ten minutes that the show is on the air.


So now get this. On Carmen Sabatino’s website he is encouraging the general public to fill out their complaint forms against law enforcement with inclusion of the Voice of Modesto (which is primarily him now) - and then go ahead and deliver it to the agency. How else will he get his stories, now that people are starting to get tired of the rants consistantly spewed out by the Prescott family.


He sent the announcement out to several newspapers in the area fully convincing himself that they are hanging on his emails as though each one could be a potential Hindenburg moment. Oh, the humanity.


Then of course there are the police reports. I understand that there has now been two filed against me. He probably thought that Modesto Police Chief Mike Harden would step right up to the plate and get the GIT (Gang Area Impact Task Force) to search my office and discover his lost laptop (that he left outside anyway after complaining on his drab and drilling propagandized Carmen vendetta driven radio show about the homeless stealing his patio furniture from the very same place). That and some precinct lists. I’m sure the Chief will get right on that. Probably bring his father along as well.


Oh, and then there is the case of me hacking into his computer systems. I probably did that with the laptop!


What’s my IP again? Oh yeah, it floats.


And of course the radio program is falling apart in terms of serious listenership. There is really nothing to hold anyone’s attention for more than two or three episodes at the most.


Why? Let me tell you why. Because Carmen does not care one iota about any of the issues that he raises in any way other than how they can serve to convince you to loath his lackadaisically chosen enemies that have long since “had their names carved into granite”.


A rose is a rose is a rose, as is a vampire.


And what do we do with vampires?


Burn them like the heretics they are!


Which reminds me, Carmen Sabatino’s position has been upgraded in the Robert Stanford Local Celebrity Death Pool. I have Fifty wagered that Carmen Sabatino won’t make it to election day. Rickets act fast once they set in, I hear.


So the walls are finally caving in on Carmen Sabatino as we may very well be seeing the very last run of his life. Kind of like a Swan’s last song sang before it dies - Swan Song - memorialized forever as the image of Icirus. Yeah. That’s Carmen Sabatino for sure. Just much fatter.


When I hear Carmen Sabatino talk about the homeless with that lurid lack of sincerity, I want to vomit.


When I hear Carmen Sabatino chide along with the mongrels that have now turned on him, as though he too bore witness to the events that transpired in the Karri Abbey case, mimicking those that know even less as though it were the gospel, I want to vomit.


As Carmen fabricates the size of his actual audience is in direct proportion to the monstrosity with which he represents his supporters.


Every living thing on this earth instinctively attempts the path of least resistance for every goal. Not only is Carmen no exception. He is the epitome and the rule of the path of least resistance.


If you are even thinking of voting for this individual than you are certainly ignorant of the recent political history going back a single decade in this city.


Talk to his ex employees. Talk to 9 out of 10 people that even recognize his name and you will see that there is at the least a connotation that echoes - shyster.


Because that is what he is. A con man that uses people. And when they catch on, or as in Emerson Drake's case, he uses them up, then he abandon’s them for another groupie in line that buys his bullshit that more than a dozen people in the community actually take him seriously. When the fact is, there is not even that many.


Athens Abell is his current victim. Just watch. She is already learning that she better get paid before the train leaves the station. So to speak.


So I think it is very important that we as Americans do everything we can to make sure that this man is not elected to the Modesto City Council.


Carmen Sabatino owes the City of Modesto per judgement 30,000.00 for a publicity stunt he pulled in court regarding a technicality of the 2007 ballot measures M and N. District elections and council salaries. This amount does not even scratch the surface of the amount of money the City of Modesto had no choice but to pay out to fight the onslought of a moron’s selfish and egoic bid to split hairs all for the sake of getting his name in the newspaper.


Now he says he might actually pay it if he wins.


That’s tax money to Carmen Sabatino.


Since you are probably not even going to make it to election day, why don’t you pay it back? While there is still time.


I encourage every Modestan to write a letter to the Modesto Bee urging people to not vote for this loser - this imaginary lazy slob.


Here is mine. I hope to see it in print very soon, though I am sure Carmen Sabatino will “not approve”:






It’s a Sabatino Fright Night!

As Halloween approaches, a familiar face is once again peeking from the crypt to drill into our very brains his personal vendettas from a decade ago.

Can you hear him knocking at the door?

Perhaps it is because, once again, we are in an election season and like his last victory, there is anti-incumbent fever lurking about in the mist of his delusions of self worth.

Remember: A vampire cannot come into your house, unless you invite them.

Think about that when you try and choose the lesser of three evils on your upcoming ballot for Modesto City Council District 3.

Yet even then, your choices will be Tweedle Dum or Tweedle Dee.
































Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

I Wish It Were Federal Friday

With nothing more than a glance across an empty desk I can see what intricate games she may be in the mood for, seemingly guided by the phases of the moon, they are only random to me when I don’t look up into the night sky to keep track of the astronomically astrological force that guides the ocean’s waves.

Familiarity breeds habits of escape. Especially at a time such as this, as my glance reveals who her real friends are. Me.

We use to sit closer, without the empty desk between us. She didn’t want me to go, nor did I as much care to, yet by the same worry and fret that had caused me to loose track of the paths of the moon, so too did I need to position myself for a secluded power base in the midst of Bad Moon irony.

Trading names like bubble gum cards, ours was the language of twins. Others that listened could understand as we exchanged names, like machine gun fire - the ammunition jacketed in the details of a payment history, telephone record and residency report. Perfectly, we complimented each name by providing the data the other lacked. We had momentum. Ah, that’s synchronicity.

What better job could one have, then be able to work in an environment that is all too easily transformed into a Soho café?

With the chatter of nail paint and quaint experiences wrapped within moments of brief silence, only to be bundled among moments of what to others seems like some esoteric wordplay - as though two detectives had been working the same case and began to compare memorized notes.

So hedonistic I became, while entrapped in the arrogant elegance of that Soho café. And then of course there was that girl.
Suddenly she and he were gone.

We had lost our one audience that had never once thought of walking out.

As though an era had ended somehow, it seemed, looking across the aisle, out of habit expecting a glance, or two, yet nothing. No one there. So discomforting, and it’s not even Federal Friday yet.

“You’re goin’ down Stanford!!! You‘re goin‘ down!”, he said, only his once carefully fixed gaze of the board meeting mine. “I’m gonna crush you  Stanford.”

Then pushing  back a bit into his seat , he lifted his Herculean arms and said, “You’re white man.”

And then a bit louder, “Hey! Dumbass! It’s your move!”

Slowly I relaxed the dramatically acted squint in my eyes, “What?”

“It’s you’re move! C’mon maaan.” raising his hand half way to his forehead as though he thought he was about suddenly experience a migraine.

“Oh, ahem. OK. Here we go….” and it was Kings Pawn to King Pawn’s Three. All within the motion of moving my piece his palm being rubbed on his leg became the tell that I was successful in my attempt to at least create an immediate distraction for him. Knowing that he would insist on wanting my attention on the game at least close to what his was. We both wanted a better game. And we knew how to get it from each other if for no other reason than it was our one thousandth’s game.

Such a charming piece in my life it was. Another natural environment that I shall, for all my days, liken to a portable remote resort. Yet forever haunting me would be the inevitable public perception that I can see is all too real today, that rather than fancying myself having vividly inspirational and deep conversation with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, it would be more likened to H.G. Wells playing chess with Jack the Ripper, in grand revolutionary debatable conversation of the siege of the New World Order - for us, as we are increasingly oppressed today by the same Police State as foretold by the most brilliant individuals through American history, today, the 4th Reich of the United States.

And now that Federal Friday has come and gone, no longer do I bear the yoke of that despair. That anticipation of what others may think.

What others think of me is power that they believe they have over me, as well as others. Something to hang over one’s head as it were. Wisdom from the very sandboxes of kindergarten. If you do not believe as they wish, then they will subtly demonstrate the lack of their faith in your moral turpitudes. Birds of a feather and all that, you know.

But I am not so sure that applies to me. No. Not me. I am on the teeter - totter. It is nowhere near the sandbox.

My ride is much wilder.

But at least I stay clean. So I try not to play with them and just like unwashed hair, my image begins to look rather “rogue”. Which is o.k. since many ultra - conservatives have assured me that they believe in me enough to wait and see if they believe in my cause. There is a God after all, I suppose.

Through the desperation of moments that test the very definition of my courage - many differences of opinion between myself and members of the community quickly dissolve. Like water into wine. Like darkness into light. The discovery of what is most important, without being so judgmental as to mock God himself.

It all started one morning in the Vietnamese Refugee Camp disguised as a remodeled Winchell’s Donut franchise.

Since I last wrote about the camp, many confused my reference to our Den Mother, as MA - the top of the Vietnamese food chain gang, borne of the necessity of years of genocidal warfare. The survival of refugees. Having spent time in prison, coming away with a tattoo so crafted from generations upon generations of Vietnamese tattoo artists. So inked that it is disguised as a birth mark, just under her left eye.

A tattoo one gets for killing another in a Vietnamese gulag.

Or so, I delighted in teasing her.

“Oh, Pollo!” she starts out, gathering the other regular’s attention, “Yeah! I take a shiv. I stab him with a shiv, man!”

It’s the same joke told in a different way every day. This day could be heard Spanish translation of what we just said. And then more laughter. As  each of the patron’s throws out his or her try for a quick line to carry on the joke. Accept for the new customer of course, having not been in there at the 7 AM rush, and if they be bold enough to still be there with us, they are nervously clenching their teeth, yet not laughing.

They inevitably do not understand our humor. It belongs to us. It has been steeping for 7 years. The same joke - every day - like crossword puzzles.

The laughter from the half dozen Mexicans lulls the unsuspecting new customers into accepting the reality that this actually is, a remodeled Winchell’s donut franchise and not a Vietnamese refugee camp.

And then the next day everyone read the newspaper or had it read to them.

By a glance across the counter, I could tell that Federal Friday had finally come. Chin wasn’t going to play the Vietnamese gulag, killing joke today.

It’s just not funny anymore.








Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.