Community Activist - Modesto Airport District - Robert Stanford

Nothing Changes On New Years Day

2012-01-11T00:30:00.000-08:00

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!!!!

2011-12-19T22:24:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-04T21:53:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-10-31T17:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Dog Day Afternoon

2011-10-30T22:39:00.000-07:00

“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!

2011-10-22T19:16:00.000-07:00

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

When it's Christmas out in Ho Chi Minh

2011-10-16T22:58:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-14T23:02:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-17T01:16:00.000-07:00

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.

OFFICIAL STATEMENT REGARDING THE ARRESTS OF AJ'S BAILBOND OWNER AND AGENT.

2011-09-15T21:36:00.000-07:00

It's Coming Modesto!! A New Page Of Your Little Bitch Site!

2011-09-07T12:22:00.000-07:00

Setting Carmen Sabatino Straight!

 CLICK HERE FOR 
The rest of the news you can really use!


Sabatino for Modesto City Council - It's The Chicago Way

Strawberries & Chocolates

2011-09-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

Yes. He's Back.
He's wicked, unpredictable and still hides in the shadows.

Like a groundhog, Stanford will peek out TONIGHT!

11:00 pm.

It's raw - it hectic - it's the Little Bitch Radio Show - with your host, the Little Bitch, everyone hates most, Robert Stanford.

BE THERE (there....there...there.......

Click here to be transported to everything Chocolaty and Heavenly STANFORD!

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

No Justice For Craig Prescott

2011-08-27T17:13:00.000-07:00

By

Robert Stanford

On April 11, 2009, In Modesto’s downtown men’s jail, Stanislaus County Sheriff Deputies tasered, pepper sprayed, beat and dog piled - to the point of suffocation, Craig Prescott, a thirty-eight year old man who had once, himself, worked alongside the very same Stanislaus County Sheriff deputies, that went on to end his life.

The dog-piling incident, which according to the 2nd autopsy obtained in full by the family, is what mortally wounded the former deputy through suffocation.

This was all committed in the course of a supposed attempt to move the former Sheriff Deputy to a “safety cell”.

He was then taken to Doctor‘s Hospital Emergency, where he died two days later.

According to members of the family, he was taken off of life support because the room was needed and also on the orders of Sheriff Adam Christianson. Also, according to the family, all of the charges that resulted in his arrest had been dropped, yet he was still hand-cuffed to the railing of the hospital bed and the family was not allowed to see him, though a nurse, told Mr. Prescott’s wife, that he was “OK.”

Further the family states that there were two armed deputies disallowing any visitation, even though, as stated previously, according to the family, all charges against him had been dropped.

In the first autopsy, the cause of death was attributed to hypertensive heart disease, yet the family has stated on numerous occasions, that Mr. Prescott was in great health, physically and that this would have no bearing. This certainly passes the giggle test for me, knowing that this is a typical ruling for cause of deaths in which the taser is thought to be the major instrument of injury.

Of course, as was to be discovered later, in the second autopsy, it was in actuality the dog-piling of multiple Stanislaus County Sheriff’s deputies that contributed to his demise, if not the premature interruption of Craig’s life support system.

The Voice of Modesto championed the family in their pursuit for justice for the murder of Craig Prescott. Providing several references and featuring a lot of the Prescott family, practically daily you will hear several references to to the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department, specifically including, the Sheriff himself, Sheriff and Coroner, Adam Christianson needing to atone for the murder of Craig Prescott on the morning Blog Radio show, the Morning Mayor.

Full details of the case were unfolded as no one else could, and provided an opportunity for the public at large to follow every step of the case, through articles and interviews with members of the family.

On April 6th 2010, Rachel Prescott, as an individual and further as the guardian of Craig Prescott’s children and Marilyn Prescott, his mother, filed suit against the County of Stanislaus itself, Sheriff Adam Christianson (not personally as others have in the recent past, mostly in sexual harassment/wrongful termination suits) only in his “official capacity”, the California forensic Medical Group, Inc., and Does one through the typical 25 respectively as is often appended to lawsuits of any type, at least locally.

A “complaint for damages for Violation of civil rights & wrongful death” and further, the only term on the page to be both bold and underlined - JURY TRIAL DEMANDED.

Now the family has began to publicly discuss the reasons that a settlement may be in order. A settlement that would bring closure to the case. Not just for the Prescott family, but also for the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department and all of those that were involved in the murder of Craig Prescott.

I was disappointed upon hearing that in exchange for the justice movement that the family and others in the community, including myself, had spurned, that this was to be forsaken for money.

In some cases of sexual harassment, I would have not only understood, but supported a settlement. I would certainly understand.

But the sheer seriousness of this case of murder as well as other differences between this case and on-the-job sexual harassment in the Stanislaus Sheriff’s Department are like comparing apples and oranges really.

Also, the great “Justice for Craig Prescott Movement” is still going on and rightfully so as it should. But having heard now that a settlement is even being considered, I find it all rather disconcerting that the tax payer will have nothing to show for what could quite possibly be millions of dollars to make this case simply “go away”.

No reform. No atonement. Nothing that was promised with the cry put out into the public of the “Justice for Craig Prescott” campaign.

I can stand behind a jury trial, but I cannot justify sweeping the matter under the carpet only to provide financial award to the family however well deserved that would of course be.

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Pain, Suffering and Families Dying Out From Methamphetamine Abuse In the Modesto Airport District

2011-08-21T20:32:00.000-07:00

By

Robert Stanford

For a sociological perspective, myself and Jorge Perez conducted a tour for the teachers of Modesto’s Johansen High School of the Modesto South Side, Empire1 and the Modesto Airport District.

Jorge Perez explained plainly to the school bus-load of teachers, the recruiting practices of South Side Gangs.

As we sat in the still hours of the morning, that time that the dew is just about completely gone, inside the school bus, pulled up along side the park, Jorge Perez unfolded, in no uncertain terms, the ongoing true reality of gang recruitment, combined with the seriousness of a matador facing off understanding with the Norteno Red Cape as an abrupt wake-up call. “This is where these kids are coming from.”

“Excuse me”, one of the teachers asked, raising her hand as though grandmother’s Kleenex was about to escape the comfort of her sleeve. “Did you say as young as sixth grade?”

Jorge stared from the steps of the forward door of the bus out into the South Side expanse through the back window and in a surprising undertone answered succinctly and precisely, “Yes”.

“Oh my…” she said, through the fingertips rapidly forming a shield across her mouth to protect the outside world from the shock waves beginning to ripple through her very being.

All from an experience of sitting where that sixth grader is going to sit while awaiting recruitment. Awaiting to be “jumped in”2 to a Gang to sell drugs for the gang - an instant Prop 21 gang enhancement for the sixth grader, who shouldn‘t have to know any better to begin with.

Of course, she had it well, as I had mistakenly prepared the teacher sitting next to me that this was more of a historical society tour, rather than a tour having really nothing to do with anything more than a dramatically infused experience of demonstrating the potential of youth in the ashes of suffering, pain, violence and death.

Reciting property titles of the local Empyrean bar and admission requirements according to decade, I became so caught up in my own esteem fulfillment of manipulating through over talking her to the point of relating anything that was said to the admission policy and era of the Empyrean bar.

All meant to be a grand platform to explain generational pockets of a 1.2 square mile area4 in which entire families are dying out due to methamphetamine use.

A deadly affliction that entered the family through the mother of invention during the war3. Something that began when their heritage first took up in the Modesto Airport District in the late 1930’s and 1940’s - Fathers absent due to hardships and war left single mothers to care for themselves at a time in which women made approximately half of what their male counterparts made in the local canneries all to support a household comprised of themselves and their children.

Children borne of a time of prosperity in their parent’s lives. Just a couple of years prior to the dust bowl that came to destroy everything they had worked all of their lives for. But those outside of the Airport District had not had the opportunity to see them before they became poor.

To work the double shifts, most of the working single mothers in the Modesto Airport District at this time, resorted to ingesting bennies5 to endure their sixteen to twenty hour shifts in a facility that in the summer, smelted glass and did not have the conveniences of the Gallo glass plant, today.

People from other areas of the town would look down upon these “Arkies and Okies”, calling them, “Down in the Gallos”.

In the 1930’s and 1940’s drug addiction was not widely understood by any means.

Most of the problems with drugs in the area had traditionally been opiate in nature, through opium used in the raw by the Chinese at the turn of the 20th century, to the injection of the plant refined as heroin. Some heroin imported in different formats of purities.6 However, speed was quickly becoming the acceptable drug of choice - “Mother’s little helper”. The one to be used before you completely give up.

Kids being kids, of course learn as they are imprinted in other ways7. Therefore, as these single working mothers adopted a lifestyle with other single working mothers in their “neighborhood” or “District”, as I like to call it, the children they were supporting understood all too clearly that to succeed down in the Gallos, or anywhere else, was to use amphetamines.

And, once again, there was little if any information at the time in any form that would educate them that this was an addictive method, saving their only experience being the likelihood that they would have been able to see after so many generations today what the end result was going to be - that this very drug was going to completely kill off their entire family line. Of course this is 2011 and that was in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s.

Mothers and fathers living with their children and grandchildren, with the adults of the household working sixteen to twenty hours a day, down in the Gallos. All strung out on speed if they were old enough to pop the pills.

Especially affected as they were growing up into the Vietnam war and the plethora of drugs that dominated the hyper-epidemic drug phenomena throughout the world. Not that this was a new event, mind you.

And still to this day - families remain. Dying from the habitual use of what social speed freaking has become - Crack and Meth. A white line nightmare. Death. Death. Death. Then nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Nothing but ashes and another generation of children in some instances, yet not in others.

But it was these children that remained which was primarily a part of my concern when it was suggested that one might care to think on those that might be saved in a triage sort of way in the Modesto Airport District.

Both Jorge Perez and I, Robert Stanford, valiantly proposed a single call to action for each teacher on the four hour cruise that day. A call to reach out and show caring. To mentor. Every child needs one.

Due to the jacked-up, white methamphetamine and heroin addicts that comprise a significantly large portion of the Modesto Airport’s demographic, their recent two decade die off combined with the housing foreclosure crisis has been filled with Mexican immigrants with different problems but identical needs.

However, during the migration of the Mexican population which occurred at the same time as the “housing foreclosure crisis”, they became preyed upon by PMZ8 affiliates preaching from the short sale scripture.

Re-Fi men and women in sharp business suits descended upon the historic properties like a plague of unwatched hyenas, luring poodles out into a trap through play, only to feed on the family pet.

This was perpetuated by such as organizations such as El Concilio that had catered to building bridges between Re-fi cons (real estate agents) and the quickly in fluxing Mexicano immigrant population by taking healthy contributions from Wells Fargo, County Bank and other institutions while allowing Mike Zagaris himself to serve prominently on their board.

Not that Mike Zagaris speaks Spanish, but what business could be had from serving on the board of an organization that simply stated by their own declared charter and mission as a Civil service organization for the Spanish speaking?

Perhaps the same as Steve Madison experiences as serving on the Salvation Army board.

An organization that serves displaced families that have come in floods as though it were another migration similar to that which originally and still fills the Modesto Airport District due to the “housing foreclosure crisis”.

In short, what are quite simply, these displaced families that have worked so hard for nothing?

Steve Madison’s victims. As are anyone that can’t find work today in Stanislaus County.

But Madison will not elude to displaced families, the elderly or the disabled. It’s all about the homeless wino hobo for Steve - those are the only ones we need to care about.

And in the best interests of everyone involved in their existence (or around at the time) is to get rid of them and save yourself the trouble of picking up your own trash (again).

And like the asbestos ridden bricks secretly buried9 in the vacant lot of another bribe to me from down in the Gallos for a “Victory Garden” - what better way to cover your evil deeds and dispose of the soon-to-be bodies but by gifting them to you?

I had spoke to a sociology class a few years before, in which the spot chosen was not ideal for me due to so many personal experiences of death, pain, suffering, joy, love, sunshine, children laughing, etc. for so long in Oregon park.

Yet at the time I just found myself there - words came quite easily to me then, as I was speaking in public at the very least a half dozen times every week and sometimes many more.

Not this time though. All I could think of was homicide. I felt that I had completely failed at what I was trying to accomplish by allowing myself to show that I was certainly not as emotionally detached from my cause as I should have been. For an overtly macho and non-effeminate male, such as I, it was quite an embarrassing episode.

Feedback that I received showed otherwise, however11

As it was with the sociology class before, though, so it was here once again as we arrived and began to pull up to Oregon park.

Jorge Perez introduced me as though I was the king of the Modesto Airport District, which I have no choice but to agree with, certainly having paid prices here no one else has, he still left me with quite large shoes to fill in my presentation.

A presentation I had not prepared for.

Rather, I had inadvertently wasted any preparation time that I had once possessed10 by trying to seduce the teacher sitting next to me into becoming fixated upon my historical observations of the die off occurring to the white population, that at one time, to a greater extent than now, dominated the demographics of the Modesto Airport District. But due their untimely methamphetamine fueled deaths - not any more.

Once again, I was overtaken by those things that men should never do. God’s mistakes, if you will. The tears brought by memories of joys intertwined with the most horrible of imaginable tragedies.

I thought, also once again, that I had failed, being unable to remember anything that I had said, due to having been overcome with the vapors of my own scarring emotions.

I asked the coordinator of the ghetto field trip, what she thought in a practically apologizing manner12.

To which she succinctly and surprisingly simply answered, “No, God that was great! I even wrote down what you said.

You said, “You can change someone’s life if you just show them you care.”

1. (Empire - out Interstate 132 toward the direction of what was once thought of to be Paradise, until it burned down by the power of the railroad and wheat Nero’s of the Stanislaus day. {Google this: PMZ Agricultural Heritage Killing Machine})

2. Jumped in - Usually in the Modesto South Side as well as other areas of gang influence, jumping in means to be severely beaten by several other “gangsters” for permanent initiation into the gang. The price of leaving ever, being that of death.

3. WWII

4. The Modesto Airport District

5. Prescription speed in table form. I.e. Cross Tops, later to come robin eggs and black beauties - speed.

6. And it was these formats of purities which changed somewhat the alignment of their ruling planets based on ingredients that may or may not have been added to the substance as a “cut” - (an ingredient to increase the drugs weight for sale) with it - but this is an entirely different topic of astrological drug recovery - similar to acupuncture in method and theory, except more “astronomical” from a Western imprinted human mind‘s perspective.

7. Hope you read the foot note, or you shall not be able to experience the brevity of the sentence that this footnote refers to.

8. PMZ - Petrulakis, Madison and Zagaris - The Overlords of the City of Modesto. What are they in all reality? Answer: Strip Miners.

9. Like so many forgotten septic tanks of 1968 through 1972 as the City of Modesto “sewered up”. KABOOM!!!! {someday - you watch!}

10. If one can actually possess such a thing.

11. http://www.scribd.com/doc/36874887/Airport-Presentation-2008-MJC-Sociology

12. Just in case, since I could not remember anything that I had said.

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

The Robert Stanford Local Celebrity Death Pool

2011-08-13T16:32:00.000-07:00

Out of pure spite and the relief of not having to be so politically correct, now that I am no longer running for mayor, neither no longer must I feel that I am being pressured by every single person I meet that has any iota of a political opinion that must for the coveted garnered vote, just like another notch in my American Flag tie, deceive people by my manner, dress, words and overall image or as some would stupidly say, "my message" as though my image is in any way really reflective of my message. I am sure they over estimate the sheer legions of followers that I have.

So, without further ado, let me introduce to you the Robert Stanford Local Celebrity Death Pool.

All entries are welcome - please email them to me here mailto:toymaker99@yahoo.com

Candidate most probable to die soon: Carmen Sabatino

Probable Cause of Death: Rickets

Candidate most probable to die soon: Ryan Swehla

Probable Cause of Death: Crushed Beneath That "Low Hanging Fruit"

Candidate most probable to die soon: Garrad Marsh

Probable Cause of Death: Crushed Underneath The Wheels Of The Contracting MAX Transit Bus Services of the City of Modesto and Outer Laying Areas of Stanislaus County

Candidate most probable to die soon: Mark Vasche' - Modesto Bee

Probable Cause of Death: A bad clam

Candidate most probable to die soon: Dan Day

Probable Cause of Death: Shoe polish ingestion

Candidate most probable to die soon: Jeff Jardine

Probable Cause of Death: Foreign object self-insertion.

Candidate most probable to die soon: Joe Muratore

Probable Cause of Death: After teasing the "sissies" just one too many times in Federal prison for embezzlement of Federal poverty funding

Candidate most probable to die soon: Steve Madison

Probable Cause of Death: Bowel impaction

Candidate most probable to die soon: Darryl (Daryl) Fair

Probable Cause of Death: Ripple deal gone bad

Candidate most probable to die soon: Robert Stanford

Probable Cause of Death: Homicide by Juiced Cop

Candidate most probable to die soon: Jim Ridenour

Probable Cause of Death: Alcohol Poisoning

Remember - e-mail your potential candidates you think will or should already be dead or dying - when you think they will die and in what way, position or environment - We will be polling shortly - if you have favorite picture you would like me to write something across on, by all means attach it to the e-mail.

Don't worry about a law suit - just tell the truth.....

Disclaimer: Like I really need one. Please.

Stanford's Modesto Mayoral Bid - Guest of First Episode of On Watch with Athens Abell

2011-07-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

PART I

PART II

PART III

Tea Party Patriot 2011 Modesto Mayoral Race Forum

2011-07-15T17:53:00.000-07:00

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART I

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART II

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART III

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART IV

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART V

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART VI

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART VII

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART VIII

Modesto Tea Party Patriot Mayoral Candidate Forum 2011 - PART IX

Modesto Gospel Mission 1 - Stanford 0

2011-06-04T18:21:00.000-07:00

Opportunities are not so prevalent in the Modesto Airport District. Primarily because the few bad apples have the advantage of having their descriptions applied across the pre-destined images to be held by all who would step foot on the mission’s “property” in expectation of any type of assistance whatsoever.

This is further exacerbated by the seemingly unnatural Cult of the New Life doctrine that prays on the desperate and dull. Blazoned upon the Assistant Director, Mark Hammond’s business card “Building Lives Worth Living” - As though some lives were not worth that much before you started doing “life business” with this man - that same approach toward making a living worked well for Jim Jones too. Well, for awhile.

To promote such a thing as their cult, “The New Life Program” is certainly their right, I suppose, though a flagrant violation of the civil rights of all those in need of their assistance.

It’s quite a simple exchange. The more assistance you require, the more rights you must have relinquished.

Perhaps Mike Moradian can tell you that now. Or perhaps not.

You certainly do not hear of the Mission requesting to get back the $50,000.00 they lost because of the appeal Moradian lodged against their Cult of the New Life de-tox expansion. Which, of course I was and still am totally in favor of. I like to call it Modesto’s only Christian monestary. Because in all truthfulness and hyperbole aside, that is in fact what it is.

Then again, you don’t hear about Mike Moradian asking for a refund from the City of Modesto or the Modesto Union Gospel Mission of the fees he had to pony up for the appeal, though it might have been early enough for him to put a stop payment on his EarthCalc LTD. Check anyway. I would imagine he was probably compensated from the La Loma Neighborhood Association’s tax evasion slush fund.

Perhaps Darryl Fair can tell you that now. Or perhaps not.

You certainly don’t hear him speaking up too much anymore, since his culpability was discovered by the McClatchy Pravda, the Modesto Bee watchdog that he had headed up an incentive package for his grant writer of well over a half million dollars. I am sure his Modesto Parks and Recreational Julie Hannon Director will still be spitting down upon him another cash wind-fall - it just won’t be stolen from the HUD Neighborhood Stabilization grant fund this time.

And to think, all she gave me, was a drinking fountain for La Loma park.

Perhaps Corey from the Modesto Union Gospel Mission can tell you. Or perhaps not.

His IQ is beginning not to seem very high as of late - or he is stupid. He might only be able to tell you all about me and who I am. Or more specifically who I am not.

But you never hear about the special perks the number one thug of the Mission staff enjoys at his beckoned call.

Of course, neither did I, until I was approached by a professional homeless man on the street, ready to body slam me to the filthy pavement which lines the marginally public sidewalk in front of the Mission.

It did not work the way he had once thought it would. That’s the problem with heroin and playing king of the hill on a span of sidewalk.

Things just play out differently for some reason when your opponent isn’t a junky like you and your pimp are.

The best his filthy nodded up manliness could muster was a quick shout out of the phrase, “fake disciple!” and a step off the sidewalk.

Then of course, that evening, like a tragic night in Selma, Corey came across yet another black man.

The Mission’s top thug did his best to dissuade the young and freshly displaced gentleman from seeking from me any opportunities of possible employment or advancement.

He went on to inform him as to exactly why that would be path leading to debauchery that Corey has only ever been able to day dream about for hours on end.

That I was, in not so many words to be best described as a charlatan, practicing felon and a crazy liar that could only lead him to shooting up on an HIV/AIDS infested mattress, in an alley just down the rail-road tracks.

Whatever number was on the Modesto Gospel Mission’s website, I called the next morning leaving a long tirade of an emotional outburst complete with the threat you are reading right now.

The Assistant Director, Mark Hammond, you know, the one that will make your life worth at least living, took immediate action along with Corey in tow and paid a visit to my office building.

And so now it would seem that it’s not just Corey’s latest Black victim that has less opportunities for employment and advancement.

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

NAZI Joe Muratore’s Final Solution - Homeless Population Reduction Through Legislation To Cause Their Starvation and Internment

2011-05-15T00:36:00.000-07:00

Solving Poverty Through Starvation and Internment

By Robert Stanford

Modesto City Councilman, The Real Estate holding Robber Baron, Joe Muratore, driven by the likes of Mike Moridian and his significant voting sect of Modesto City Council District 4 and the perpetual PMZ (Petrulakis, Madison and Zagaris) agricultural heritage killing machine that literally, now owns the entire City of Modesto, to the point of constructing it’s very constitution, the Modesto City Charter, proposed legislation that would make it a crime to feed people in public.

A law that Joe Muratore consistently referred to as “non-prohibitive”.

Muratore’s efforts to implement this anti-humanitarian legislation did not fare well due to public outcry. A public consisting of no more than two individuals, namely former mayor and internet radio host, the gouted and self-serving Carmen Sabatino and Modesto Airport District Community Activist, Robert Stanford, a freak that no one seems to understand nor believe.

After seeing himself likened to a traditional fascist on the internet by Robert Stanford and chastised by the fair weather glutton, Carmen Sabatino as being nothing more than a spear-head for an anti-homeless power group, he relented his attempts at direct implementation of the anti-homeless legislation and instead, took the more subtle approach of forming a “Blue Ribbon” committee through the powers of the Modesto City Council to sugar coat his plans for homeless elimination through starvation and internment.

The members of the committee were carefully picked to be lauded as advocates of poverty, when in reality, all but two of the members were nothing more than politically hungry moguls wearing the badges of charity as the wolves in sheep’s clothing they are.

Steve Madison: Often referred to as the PMZ Machine’s middle name, he has lofted himself into the local Salvation Army’s Red Shield board, buying his way with money and power to the Director’s chair.

Mike Moradian: The head of the La Loma Neighborhood Association that proclaimed his intent to run for the Modesto City Council District 4 council seat in the 2009 election, yet stepping down to allow the real estate robber baron fascist, Joe Muratore to run in his place.

Just recently, Mike Moradian, according to the Modesto Bee, caused the Modesto Union Gospel Mission to lose fifty thousand dollars. But of course, in the grand schemes of the Modesto Union Gospel Mission, that was probably little more than chump change, since the Mission is historically known for taking in far more than it distributes to the community. The meals it serves consists of nothing more than scanty portions of the cheapest food they could possibly serve.

Darryl Fair: A preacher, a primary shield used by all members of the committee, including the Committee’s chair, who ignorantly, if not falsely touts the man as having the only “homeless church” in the city of Modesto,

Mr. Fair has financial aspirations of gaining financing through the Modesto Parks and Recreation Department’s Julie Hannon, to fund future “non-profit” endeavors. Like the Modesto Union Gospel Mission, the biggest benefactor will be the stake holders of the organization itself, not necessarily those it serves.

Cindy Hamilton: One of two female pastors from Modesto’s First Methodist. Indoctrinated into the general Modesto political philosophy of go along to get along, many of her statements seemed to contradict the apparent message of the church she represents as she was so quick to side with those that consistently proclaimed that leaving paper plates and other trash lying about was likened to a deadly sin. And that this, if for no other reason is why something must be done about the “homeless problem”. Not that the suffering of these people are the problem, but rather that a few paper plates left on a park lawn is what is the motivating factor to address the situation of homelessness according to the specific and direct instructions of Joe Muratore.

Vanessa Czopek: The head of the Stanislaus County Library, one who showed her true colors when she disposed of forty years worth of back issues of Writer’s Digest, which was an asset of the library to say the least.

Just as she attempted to show her fiduciary aptitude by destroying assets of the library as a mock demonstration of cutting spending and being able to handle a budget in lean times (such as the ridiculous contruction of yet another monument to the Bee‘s past and present publisher Lynn Dickerson‘s deceased son), so too did she show her ineptness in her position on the board by constantly whining and complaining about the homeless in and around the library. Once again, it’s about the trash. Yet she did not care to discuss the lack of responsibility taken by the security guards our library taxes pay for.

Brad Wilson: Works at the mission and is probably the only one that has actual “hands on experience” with the homeless, whether they be alcohol/drug dependent or merely displaced. He was suspiciously not present at this meeting.

Frank Ploof: A progressive democrat, coming fresh from management of the Les Marsden for Congress campaign, he was inadvertently accepted to the committee, probably due to his quiet and subtle demeanor.

Besides myself, Mr. Frank Ploof was the only one to use words such as “individual” “human being” “respect” and a host of others that are conveniently foregone from the vocabulary of everyone else present that evening. He would speak of exhaultation of people’s lives, while all the while, the insidious and evil Mike Moradian would downplay the efforts as impossible and hopeless.

Modesto City Councilman Joe Muratore: Though, it was said to me on an earlier telephone conversation with David Wright, the chair of this “final solution” committee, that Joe Muratore’s presence was too much of a kindling for descent.

Joe Muratore is also, among other things, a member of the Modesto Commonwealth Club. Another political spring-board, just like the College Neighborhood Association and La Loma Neighborhood Association.

David Wright: An insurance salesman, bastardizing the very name of Jesus Christ himself in his attempt to please his political master, Modesto City Councilman, Joe Muratore.

David Wright now heads up the committee for homeless elimination.

Constantly, he vacillates between ambiguous Bible passages and close associations, that he calls, “partnerships” with ministers.

More than anything, David Wright’s talent lies in his ability to reduce the number of homeless to the number of beds that are available at the Modesto Union Gospel Mission - less than two hundred. And he does not just do this to the homeless population but also reduces the sign cant numbers of the organizations, churches and individuals that strive to improve the lives of the poverty stricken and displaced.

Upon entrance into infamous Room 2008 at Modesto’s lavish and wastefully lit City Hall, I found myself alone with the chair of the organization. A man that I had recently spoken with on the phone at length by his very own request through another Neighborhood Watch Precinct Captain, David Wissner. Yet, Mr. David Wright suddenly only recognized me from the Modesto City Council Committee on Public Safety meeting that had spurned this “final solution” committee due to Joe Muratore’s lack of courage in implementing Steve Madison’s anti-individual charity law.

“You haven’t seen my website?”, I asked casually.

“No I haven’t. Where do you do your work?”

“The Airport District.”

“You know a few homeless do you?”

My gaze became fixated on the features of his enduring Polident grin. Forcefully, I spoke again, “I work with a LOT of homeless.”

Just then, Sony Harrigfeld walked in. My gaze switched from Mr. Wrights robotic mannequin form to the young woman, as I eagerly awaited to see which name tag she would sit in front of. Yet, she sat by none and took up a seat directly across from me at the opposite end of the conference table.

Wrapped in the very moment of my acknowledgement to her presence by little more than a nod, I simultaneously queried the mannequin once again, “Hey, I understand that there’s a public comment period. How long is that for?”

Without breaking that Polident grin of his, he said, “Legally we don’t have to have one. This is a commission. A commission is….”

“I am very familiar with what a commission is, sir”, I said, abruptly interrupting him in mid-sentence. That was not the question I posed to you. I asked you how long your public comment period was. Five minutes? Three minutes?”

“We don’t legally have to have one.”

“Yes, the City attorney told me that.”, I said, wondering if he had seen the letter I had written threatening to sue the City of Modesto for Brown Act violations, since it was obvious he had lied to me when he had said that he had not visited my website. That was even more apparent by his ever increasingly intense condition that resembled cerebral palsy in it’s advanced stages, as he listened to every word I spoke in a daisy chain of frightful and apprehensive expectations. I leveled my question, “How long is it?”

“Well, it’s as long as you want. Everyone is free to speak.”

Then the middle name of the PMZ agricultural heritage killing machine of the Central Valley, Steve Madison entered the room with the stern look of a mental institution prison guard looking at me as though he were quickly trying to gauge just how much Thorazine he had on hand to take me completely out of his way.

After the head of the Building Industry, was followed by the self-professed preacher man, Darryl Fair entered, avoiding any signs that he could see me staring hard at him, as though I were about to leap up and ask him for some change. He entered with what one would think were the Church secretary, but I guess it was his wife. (Sorry about that). And with the arrogance of the same ilk one often sees within the Modesto Union Gospel Mission’s walls.

Vanessa Czopek from the Stanislaus County Library political front stormed in with the determination of coming off as much as possible as an aged Aunt Bee, ready to feed everyone cherry pie alamode.

But like all political prisoners inside themselves, there is really no pie to be had. Just another babbling dementia stricken soul, nervously whoring through life like the former mayor, Carmen Sabatino. The kind of poor soul that you would breath a sigh of relief while reading their obituary, saying to yourself, “Well. They are in a better place now.” Where is Jack Kavorkian when you need him?

Frank Ploof was the next player to parade into the room. The only rational and pure heart on the commission, aside from Brad Wilson .

It was obvious that he did not want to taint his already faltering image with the group by giving me a high-five or anything more than a muted hello and possibly a slip that he knew me on a first name basis. Or should I say, “knew of me.”

I looked back over to the lady that had first ventured in and sat across from me at the opposite end of the conference table.

She had the look as though she had been gazing at me the whole time. I could see that besides Frank Ploof and Brad Wilson, there was at least someone in the audience that was on the side of the homeless themselves and not just there as NAZI mercenaries, hell bent on eradicating the homeless for their political gain through Steve Madison, Mike Moradian or Joe Muratore. Or God forbid, all three.

Alas, her reason for being there, was that she was the speaker for that evening. She was from the Environmental Resources Division of the County Parks and Recreation Department. Not to be confused with the practically exact same thing from the city - the ordinances that comprise “what” is to be enforced are quite different, as the County fulfills State of California health and safety (food) mandates and the City of Modesto goes well beyond that by implementing their own legislation developed through the whims of the few that control the legislative history of the City of Modesto. (PMZ - Petrulakis, Madison and Zagaris).

The meeting commenced and the Chair of the commission set about to further NAZI Joe Muratore’s goal to eliminate the homeless through starvation and legislation against their civil rights as well as those that would have otherwise assisted them. As the fool he is he obviously thought no one would dare protest as he immediately by-passed the public comment period and launched straight away into agenda item, number 2 - the minutes from the last meeting.

“Hey, excuse me. Are we going to have a public comment period?”, I asked brazenly as everyone’s eyebrows raised in response to my question than eased upon everyone looking toward the chair and awaiting his victorious and succinct response.

“Why, uh yes. You may speak Mr. Stanford.”, he replied, shaking so severely, it gave me pause to debate with myself whether I should take my belt off and lodge it between his mandibles, so that he would not inadvertently swallow his tongue - or his dentures.

“My name is Robert Stanford. I am a Civil Rights Activist. I primarily advocate for the Modesto Airport District and I am a candidate for the 2011 Modest Mayoral race.

I have worked with the homeless for many years, and I have seen how these feeding sites that you have said you want to eliminate have blossomed from ideas over and over again, growing and flourishing through the necessity of not just the homeless, but also the seniors, the disabled and others that otherwise would not be able to eat and partake of what little nourishment that they get now.

I was here during the first Public Safety Commssion meeting when Joe Muratore introduced his desire to enact legislation that would make it illegal for one to break bread with their neighbor in public or in the home if the person they were breaking bread with were at a poverty level income status.

Your numbers that you report to the public regarding the homeless population are way too low. I believe that they are purposely low.

I know that you do this intentionally, so that you can justify to people that it’s a good and proper thing - even a spiritual thing to eliminate services to the poor and in affect, actually starve these individuals, because you believe that this will make them leave the area so that you do not have to look at them walk by your house anymore.

I am here today to tell you that I will not allow this come to pass.”

My speech was rather short for as impassioned as it was. I did not go any further than 2 to 2 ½ minutes at the most, and I no more than had sat down when the preacher man blurted out a question, “Uh…uh….hold on a minute. Uh, I wanna ask a question to this, uh, this gentleman. Now, just so I understand. Just so I get this straight, uh, so you are saying that this committee right here,” he motioned his hand as though he were a witch adding the final abra-cadabra incantation to some potion, “that this committee, uh, that we are suppose to make it illegal to be homeless?”

“No, I said, that is not what I said. What I said was that Joe Muratore attempted to introduce legislation to make it a crime to break bread with one’s neighbor in the city of Modesto. An ordinance if you will. Do you not remember? You were there.”

“So, then, uh, what you’re sayin’ is that Joe Muratore is trying to pass a law and that’s what this committee is for.”

“Yes.”

“uh huh”, he said finally bringing the exchange to a close with a smirk and a wave off of his hand. But rumor has it that he will not relent because he has some fingers in the Modesto City Government pie - something more to add to his “salary”.

No one wants to discuss the reality. They only want to get rid of the homeless any way they can get away with. They are not concerned with shut ins, the elderly, the disabled, nor are they even concerned with the displaced families that have sky-rocketed in numbers. For many individuals in this demographic also share of many of these services the committee has stated are excessive and need to be eliminated.

NAZI Joe Muratore wants them gone. So he can fulfill his campaign promises to make the homeless go away by starving and interning them. Going so far as to make it a crime to break bread with your neighbor.

Am I to be the only one to protest this atrocity disguised as crime prevention?

The chair immediately forewent the rest of the agenda and began to insert Joe Muratore’s wishes, elegantly playing his part as NAZI Joe Muratore’s mouth-piece. “Ok. I propose that we cut off feeding the homeless everywhere accept for Beard Brook Park. We can allow non-profits to sign up for this and then they can rotate. We can feed there everyday.”

To which I brought up my concerns, concerning the limited geographical perceptions that were put forth regarding where the homeless were. That they were not just restricted to the outskirts of the Modesto Airport District along Yosemite where the Modesto Union Gospel Mission resides at the end of the La Loma neighborhood, but that they were all over the city and that by shutting down their access to food and other services was quite frankly, inhumane.

To which Mike Moradian accused me of being off-topic and threatened to eliminate all future public input on the commission throughout the rest of their six month life, at the end of which they make their recommendations to the Modesto City Council, which of course will consist of legislation designed to cause the literal starvation and internment of our most poverty stricken citizens.

Frank Ploof had a report to give as an acting member on the committee. But he had to also remind the mannequin puppet, Mr. Dave Wright, that he had passed him by, causing the mannequin to “table” his proposal to intern the city’s homeless to one park.

“Oh, I’m sorry“, the mannequin chair of the committee chirped out. “Go ahead, do you have something to report?”, as though all of Frank Ploof’s effort and research were not all he claimed they were. So much so, that the mannequin, Dave Wright, acted as though it would be preposterous for Frank Ploof to present a report he could not even possibly have.

Frank Ploof then laid out research he had done on an organization that provided outreach to the homeless and provided them with a home without the transistion in between as is typically conducted by most organization now, what with how few of the homeless that they even serve.

Moradian seemed to take offense at the reference to me, that I actively sought out homeless individuals. Not so much clarifying assistance but discrediting everything I do for and with the homeless as nothing more than a lie, since I do not “provide an immediate home” for them. This of course coming from the guy that, back in March, cost the Modesto Union Gospel Mission fifty thousand dollars by filing an appeal to their permit to expand their detox center and lying to the general public regarding the intentions of the Mission as well as threatening to completely shut the mission down based on a plethora of health and safety code violations.

Of course Moradian relented with the self-proclaimed “assistance” of my Mayoral 2011 race opponent, Brad Hawn.

The presenter that evening gave Mike Moradian everything he needed to close down all of the organizations that feed in the Modesto City parks with no more effort than making a complaint to the division of the Parks and Recreation department that is equivalent to the State of California’s health department.

Since it is illegal, according to the presenter, Ms. Harrigfield, to provide food to the general public in any public park in the City of Modesto anyway.

The only reason that they were still allowed to serve people food in the park at this time, was because Mike Moradian has been to much of a moron to even bother to call and complain. But that will soon be an obstacle removed, as Mike Moradian will now proceed to call the health department on a myriad of individuals and religious organizations as well as non-profits to do his part to take a bite out of the undesirables and begin the starvation process in hopes of the homeless migrating out of the City of Modesto, or simply dying of starvation within Modesto.

It makes no difference to the insidious Mike Moradian, a man that would orgasm at the site of a homeless person writhing from being covered with kerosene and set ablaze. That is as long as it did not scorch his lawn.

The lack of outcry from the general public of the City of Modesto disturbs me. Perhaps I am not doing my job.

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Two Brave Men Deliver One Brave Letter

2011-05-10T18:37:00.000-07:00

For More Information on Law Enforcement and Steroid Abuse - Click Here!

John Mataka with the assistance of Don Donoso, another very long time activist in Stanislaus County appeal to the attorney general where no one else dared.

John Mataka has long been known for his freedom of religion, anti-drug/pro-human, West Side, Chicano Culture, Farm Worker as well as many other causes of social justice.

Don Miguel Denoso was the very first to ever speak out regarding the health concerns for the children regarding the Local Tallow Plant. Coming from an intense culture of activism in San Jose, Don Miguel came here to our community to advocate for all of us. Particularly the poor.

This letter is a triumph for our community and we thank these two brave men for carrying through the cause against police brutality and corruption.

Read The Letter It'self Here.

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

It’s Just Another Federal Friday

2011-04-27T21:59:00.000-07:00

Vote for Stanford or Bow Down To Your God Government Forever

From just a look across the aisle by the very mention of a day of week is borne a glance between us. A moment to be reveled in as mainstream consciousness chants of gunpowder bravado, “This. Yes this is synchronicity”.

So much like the most splendid monarch butterfly gently coming to a landing within the center of a vat of motor oil. The wings come down inside that same instance engulfed in fatal futility, as the still, quite beautiful insect has no choice but to indulge in the fast smothering suicide of it’s own involuntary creation.

As the weeks have grown forward through time, so too, has our perception of the possibly inevitable invasion. A spark that we both know would push us to where we are bridling to be - in the midst of a revolution.

All that from a glance.

I was asked, just now, how it feels to spend my days at the epicenter of the Modesto Airport Business District. To be around that kind of “energy”. The energy being referred to as that which one turns to one’s advantage. A way of life becomes you when what was once TGIF is now the potential tide of a revolution. Spurned by a single Federal Friday.

An angel of love and hope asked me this. An angel that acts as a mirror to me.

Though indescribable, I could only do my best to try and illustrate how much stronger and vibrant I have become in so many ways. Week after week. Federal Friday through Federal Friday.

The time had passed quickly, since we had seen each other last. Too quickly. So quickly, that though I had known of myself since, I had forgotten how beautiful I was when I looked into this mirror. There is a lot to be said, for knowing that you are not alone. That there are others like you. Synchronicity.

My all or nothing critical damning judgments quickly sorted out the true freedom fighters from the political trash of the Stanislaus Hispanic Leadership Council. Few survived to go on living with hardly any respect from me at all. For myself personally, it was a matter of life and death. The issues at hand, as it were.

In addition to this beautiful angel before me, there were others.

Pride felt veneration sweeping over both our faces upon hearing from me the exciting news of local political achievements by some of those freedom fighters. Each item more intense and shocking than the one before it.

“Luis Molina. He’s now the mayor of Patterson.”

“Guillermo Ochoa. First Latino Councilman of Ceres. Appointed his first term. Just got elected to his second.”

“Virginia Madueno? She’s now the mayor of Riverbank!”

And so we were then able to quickly sum up the struggles. The discrimination of not that long ago, that we both had experienced and witnessed. In the schools and in the local markets. The shunning. The closed doors. And for these that have attained their rightful places of true leadership, it is a testament to what we both knew they were and are - angels. Synchronicity.

So invigorating to be able to share the excitement and hope that these accomplishments bring. The hope that true equality is attainable. That despite the stereotyping, generalizations and discrimination one might succeed for the sake of the heart, rather than the pocket book of the greedy, selfish and psychopathically cruel and oppressive white man.

Just as is Yen and Yang, so too comes the darkness. Darkness that we always knew could, but always hoped would not come.

“Teresa Guerrero lost her last bid for the Ceres School Board.”

“And Belinda Rolicheck lost her’s for the Modesto City School Board.”

“Tom Changnon turned out not to be all that.”

“And neither did Arturo Florez.”

So as I sit here writing this on a Wednesday evening, I no longer feel fueled by the angst of anticipation of the unknown. I look forward to the end of the week. So that I too can proudly stand tall and strong for what America stands for and remark, “Hey, it’s Federal Friday!”

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

The McClatchy Pravda, The Modesto Bee And The Death Of The First Amendment

2011-04-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

Dan Day - Boot Licker for The Modesto Bee

The threads are being stolen away in the night on the Modesto Bee Hive, as though little cobblers resembling decrepit looking garden gnomes patrol the dark and musty labyrinth of all that we had built over a 5 year period.

A deletion here. A deletion there. And then another thread that ties everything together - that which the Modesto Bee not only forgoes reporting, but denies it’s realities except for a certain Jeff Jardine’s puppetry manifested by a few that do the bidding of the PMZ (Petrulakis, Madison and Zagaris) development war machine. Their overlords, if you will, is utterly gone into the ether of cyberspace, never to be seen again. So many took so much stock in the platform. So much unwarranted stock.

But we already know all that.

Dan Day wrote his diatribe opinion piece in the McClatchy Pravda, The Modesto Bee defending the actions of banning the most outspoken users and shutting off the ability to create new posts on the rag’s blogsite, by citing racism as the primary motivating factor. He says that customers were complaining.

He further cited the inappropriateness of criticizing Governmental agencies.

And then chimed in the Commonwealth Private Club (Where is their paperwork again? Oh, yeah, they don’t need it. They are just a group of locals that got together for some community action. Kind of like the Klu Klux Klan. But even the KKK had to pay taxes.

Their latest by-line is “Civility”. This is their latest weapon to run interference on the front lines for their newly chosen Mayor, Brad Hawn. You remember Brad Hawn. He was responsible for saving the Modesto Gospel Mission from the evil and insidious Mike Moradian of the La Loma Neighborhood Association - another paperless organization that Moradian once claimed to have deep historical roots in the community as a “Property Owner’s Association of the La Loma Neighborhood”, but then it was discovered, that in actuality, it was nothing more than a failed security scam perpetrated by none other than the Evil and Insidious, Mike Moradian himself.

They wrote a letter to the McClatchy Pravda, The Modesto Bee, literally “thanking” them for shutting down the Hive. Of course, they are probably breathing a sigh of relief, thinking that they have removed the only platform I had to tell the other sides of their deceptive stories to the gullible general public. However, that rest will be short-lived, as I intend to build a network that shall rival the McClatchy Pravda, The Modesto Bee and in very short order if Carmen Sabatino doesn’t end up catching that elusive second wind of his.

The McClatchy Pravda, The Modesto Bee serves it’s master well. Yet it’s quite a tightrope that they walk Always in the balance, never knowing when their deceptive drawers will be dropped for all to see.

That The emperor’s clothes is nothing more than a PMZ Bank Owned yard sign.

Robert Stanford

Modesto Airport District Civil Rights Activist

Mayoral Candidate 2011

The La Loma Neighborhoods Assault on the Christian Monastery of the City of Modesto

2011-04-05T09:41:00.000-07:00

The Modesto Gospel Mission has served the City of Modesto and surrounding areas since 1948. For those that have followed my writing here on the net, you can see that I have often butted heads with the Mission in attempts of advocated for certain individuals that were in desperate need, but found no quarter to be granted from the Mission. No mercy for those that fail to walk a very thin moral line.

The rules have withstood the test of time all of these years. No cursing, no disruption of the Mission services and a myriad of other rules, most of which would seem to be more applicable in a Christian Church setting. But when viewed in terms of what the Modesto Gospel Mission is, at it’s core, these rules begin to seem extremely appropriate.

The Mission has and seems to have always had, like other similar Gospel Missions throughout the United States, a program that’s sole purpose is to re-introduce those that have lost everything to drugs and/or alcohol to a “new life”, as it were.

With an application process that rivals that of an application to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, it is not so easy for one to merely enter the program on any type of a whim or idea that in some way, the program will offer them an “easy” way off from the streets.

Both the application and interview process for the program is rigorous and acceptance to the program is determined by a board that holds fast to a stringent and intense Christian doctrine. One entering the program must immediately cut ties with friends and families for a period of approximately 3 months at least, upon entry into the program.

The participants are not allowed to participate in any activity not approved and promoted by the program. There is no association with those outside of the program or the Mission Staff - and for approximately $10.00 per week, the participants are expected to work upwards of 12 to 16 hours per day.

For just about all of the participants, there is a detoxification process that commences immediately, with the individual’s addictions and tendencies bring the individual into what is often, intense and painful withdrawal.

As is the norm, a medical fact as it were - multiple relapses must take place when detoxing from a variety of addictions, most notably - heroin. Not so with the Modesto Gospel Mission’s program. Once an individual enters this program, they are not allowed to relapse because of two primary reasons - 1. They are not allowed association with any type of an environment that would be conducive to a relapse and 2. They are not allowed access to any addictive device, including cigarettes/tobacco.

Many years ago, I personally witnessed several detoxifications of alcoholics and heroin addicts that had entered the program - a few long nights of DT’s and the person was able to count their days of freedom from their addiction and begin to dream again of a new life - a life as someone that they always were, but their drug of choice had hidden from them as though they had been completely taken over by an outside force. Forcing them into a lifestyle that they would now realize was not of their choosing.

In the late 1970’s, I remember volunteering and working with the program when the Modesto Gospel Mission was on 8th and H streets in downtown Modesto, CA. At that time, their capacity was approximately five persons. Of the hundreds of people that attended the Mission, this was generally about all that would have been approved to participate in the program anyway. But this was over 30 years ago. A different time when the population of the City of Modesto was just a little more than half of that which it is today.

Then they moved to the Modesto Airport District in the mid 1980’s and were able to double the capacity of the “New Life” program to 10 persons.

Now, at the dawn of a new century and millennium, the Modesto Gospel Mission is able to double the capacity of the program again to 20 beds - allowing for approximately 15 people that, on average are able to complete the 12 month, intense and strict program per year. That equates to an average of 15 people that will be able to save their lives from an otherwise deadly and despicable plight filled with nothing but hunger, desperation, crime and drug addiction.

Not that it is anything new, but now, we have political leaders that parade the banner of the “elimination of human blight” as a primary talking point and campaign promise to further their political aspirations through the few in the community that actually cast votes.

Mike Moradian in affiliation with City Council of Modesto District 4, Joe Muratore have propped up a failed startup - security venture, called the La Loma Neighborhood Association, to rally those to their banner to “eliminate the homeless”. Even Mike Harden, the chief of the Modesto Police Department, politically cow-tows to this small, deceptive group and promises to support the ideology that the best thing to do to “solve the homeless problem” is to eliminate services and support for these citizens and drive them away from the city limits - starving them out - all to make them “Someone else’s problem”.

For those that work toward positive solutions for the City of Modesto - solutions that are something a bit more than photo-ops - this is not a viable solution, nor a very humane position to be held.

In consideration of the claims and challenges that Mike Moradian and Joe Muratore have put forth, the La Loma Neighborhood Association and it’s affiliates throughout the private and public sectors of the City of Modesto has become an embarrassment nation-wide. As these individuals concerned only with their own popularity, real estate values and personal political agendas attempt to wipe out one of the last vestiges of the City of Modesto that makes us great.

Stand up for humanity. Do not allow the course of Modesto’s history to be dictated to the gutter of morality by a few individuals that would deceive you and keep you unaware that what they propose is the actual “shutting down” of, not just the Christian Monastery of the Modesto Gospel Mission, but the entire Mission itself.

For them it makes perfect since. There is no need to rehabilitate these individuals, since if we cut off their basic life needs, such as shelter and food - even going so far as to make it a crime for another citizen to feed them, they will leave and become, in the words of Mike Moradian, Joe Muratore and Modesto Police Chief, Mike Harden, “someone else’s problem”.

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

VOTE STANFORD FOR MODESTO MAYOR 2011

2011-04-01T21:43:00.000-07:00

DON'T BE A BOOT LICKER!!

Vote

Modesto Mayor 2011

When The Truth Is Found To Be Lies And All Of The Hope Within You Dies

2011-03-10T23:38:00.000-08:00

“Hey man it’s me.”
“Oh, hey what are you doin?”
“I’m sick man. I think I got strep.”
“Strep? You mean strep throat? You think you have strep throat?”
“Yeah man, the whole family is down.”
“Have you been to the doctor?”
“Doctor? I can’t do that I don’t have no health insurance now.”
“Oh, yeah. Well you know I got some clinic referrals…”
“No, no I’ll be allright. I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be in today. I will try tomorrow. I think I can be in tomorrow. I just need to get some rest but we’re all sick as dogs around here. Can you hear my voice?”
“Yeah yeah. Look I’ll take care of it for you just take care of yourself. It’ll be ok here.”
“Allright. Thanks man. Thanks.”
“Right, like no problem man. Just get rest and take care of yourself you know that’s whats important everything will be ok, I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks man, I’m really sorry.”
“No no man, it’s ok. Really. It’s all good. I hope you feel better tomorrow ok?”
“Yeah me too man. Ok good - bye.”
“Later on”
CLICK.

And that was the last I heard from Rob Ronning, the latest victim of the Federal Reserve’s Illuminati plan to destroy the world starting with innocent family men, like Aleo Pontillo II of AJ’s Bail Bonds and Rob Ronning of the now former, Ronning Arms until the new Monday that came like a singing telegram from a hangover being had on a multi-lined cell phone to be ultimately found transformed into an ecclesiastical understanding of the cycles of harvest.

Wearing his not so queer-looking safety sun-glasses like a co-oped hippie’s head ban, he carefully shouldered the glass paned door as though he were walking a balancing beam spanning the murkiest depths of the polluted Modesto Dry Creek creek, ever so careful as not to spill one precious drop of his corporate conglomerated 4 to 6 dollar cup of sterile coffee.

Turning like a mime on a San Francisco tourist trapped sidewalk, he showed the sincerity of his, “good morning” by daring to awkwardly raise his papered beverage in a toast of salutation to me as I did my best to hide my pleasure of seeing him once again duck into, what the rest of us know to be, his refuge from the onslaught of the turncoat ATF and literary sluts of petty local corruption, the McClatchy Pravda - Modesto Bee.

Through the week Rob has assumed his place once again upon his throne. A chair from the front reception area. An area in which no one will notice the chair missing, since their mind is always elsewhere, whether they be on an emergency visit or just a check up. And on this throne, where one would expect to see Rob with an assortment of magazines within easy reach, you never see him ever with a magazine. Just another example of how the rules of his “pre-release” have affected him as though he were some foreigner being watched by a wretched and giddy teenager within some old post WWII grainy documentary of shell shock victims.

I remember seeing Rob experience the flashbacks of his reality. A reality that crept over him like a migrating fungus. Taken outside and dressed down in public view by some Federal Babysitter Bitch charged with reminding him of his “pre-trial release” actual guilt. A condition of his freedom being that he could not be self employed and was to be treated in all ways as a parolee. Or go to jail on the grounds of violating his “pre-trial release” conditions. Guilty until proven as much. And you and I will pay for it. But not as much as Rob is this very moment.

I have been meaning to take Rob and introduce him to some of my comrades at the Cambodian safe house disguised as a hi-jacked by junkies winchells donut shop. It’s just a hop skip and a Frogger game across the Yosemite divide, but the multi-lined Wall Street floor has absorbed most of my waking moments as though I were watching the Labyrinth on acid. (Again). But business is business, or so I am learning. Cycles of the harvest and there has been less time to visit. Though I must, most assuredly admit that it had to be this way.

I guess I would just certainly fancy walking a short while down a busy street with Rob Ronning, knowing that of all the things he certainly has to fear the most right now, which is…well, practically everything, I know he would feel safe and proud to walk and be seen in open public with me. Quite ironic.

Of course, what is even more ironic is former Mayor Carmen Sabatino, who, by sheer force of will would bludgeon my skull in with a hammer, somehow stuff me into the trunk of his Sebring and drive me out to the last vestiges of cow pastures in Oakdale, Ca to leave me as I lay dead or dying amongst the steam rising from the fresh new morning’s cow manure. Rather than risk a solitary soul catching a glimpse of he and I together in any capacity. And Rob Ronning would whole heartedly agree and add to the prophetic description of such a petty and distracting torment. Though, he and Carmen are bound not by a uniqueness of “carmenalization” as Carmen would have you believe, but by the prolific pilfering of justice by the McClatchy Pravda - The Modesto Bee and local, as well as Federal law enforcement agencies.

But like roided out, power mad NAZI cops, like those we have today, some that are pure in spirit must be strong and forgiving of the trespasses of fat psychopathic narcissistic ogres in this broken and degraded republic that has now, for all intents and purposes of greed become a police state of startling magnitude.

On my way from the Cambodian safe house this morning, I happened upon an old, fat worn out waste of general Modesto City funds, a decrepit Modesto Police Officer. Brandishing a ticket book and a badge he spent over an hour on a homeless man that will probably die before the year is out, much less pay any kind of a fine, merely for trespassing. Must be his 50th ticket since the Bank of the West closed down.

As I walked by, I stared hard. Pissed off I was that while the entire city was number one in the pain and suffering of crime and the powers that BEE incessantly bitch and whine about the release of dangerous criminals and the great reductions in the police force (which I protested the commencement of, by the way, being the ONLY Modesto citizen of a quarter million to do so), we have a pathetic old and feeble man cowering within the safety of homelessness harassment, leeching our precious tax dollars as though he is actually going to live through his next foot pursuit and not die of a heart attack.

He looked back at me as though he actually thought there was a single drop of respect left in me for his uniform. A uniform that should be soaked in blood to represent the Modesto Police Department’s betrayal of the City of Modesto’s Citizens when, suddenly, my phone rang.

“Rob it’s Rob.”
“Hey Rob. It’s Rob”
“Hey”
“Hey…what’s up?”
“I’ve got a guy working on my truck right now.”
“What? You’re going to have to speak louder. I’m a little deaf”
“I said I’ve got a guy working on my truck right now.”
“You have a guy working on your truck right now?”
“Yeah, he’s working on my truck right now. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”
“Ok so are you coming in?”
“Yeah yeah I’m coming in, I just wanted to tell you that I was still coming in and we can move that desk upstairs.”
“Yeah….yeah. Ok. Yeah that’s cool. Do you know what time?”
“As soon as the truck is done.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, as soon as the truck is done.”
“As soon as the truck is done? You’re comin’ in as soon as the truck is done.”
“Yeah. As soon as the truck is done, I’m comin’ in.”
“Yeah. Ok. What time.”
“As soon as the truck is done.”
“Yeah, Ok. No, I mean, what time?”
“What time?”
“Yeah, do you know what time you are coming in?”
“Um, yeah. As soon as the truck is done I’ll be right there and I’ll help you get that desk up the stairs.”
“No, I mean what time. How long do you think?”
“How long?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with your truck?”
“Oh, it’s um, nothing’ ….I think. I don’t know right yet.”
“So do you know how long?”
“How long?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably about …let’s see…I don’t know.”
“That’s cool.”
“About thirty or forty minutes tops.”
“Thirty or forty minutes?”
“Yeah, thirty, forty minutes tops.”
“O.k.”
“Ok right, and then it’ll be like ten, fifteen minutes and I’ll help you get that desk up the stairs.”
“Ok great. That’s cool. Ok. Thank you.”
“No problem. So then I will be there soon.”
“Ok.”
“Ok. Bye.
“Bye Robbie”

Copyright 2011 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

What Would Scooby Do?

2011-02-06T13:37:00.000-08:00

After the bars close, it’s pretty nippy in the Modesto Airport District as of late. Why even in the Jack in the Box dining room, one is able to see their own breath and just for a moment fool the hurried, bustling and fun-loving staff to believe that one is actually smoking a cigarette in the dining room.

An offense comparable to completely de-robing, though it would be interesting if the resulting reaction would eventually continue to parallel in similarities.

I am sure I will eventually be able to bear witness to this and know for sure.

The Asian market, virtually next door to the Modesto Gospel Mission, was a scene of a small gathering for a candlelight vigil.

Joe Muratore reached out and snuggled up to the victim’s remaining family over dinner an hour before the commencement of the ceremony. Most fitting since two days prior the local McClatchy Pravda – the Modesto Bee, heralded Mr. Muratore’s appearance under the proclamation that after all, it was his district. I don’t know what they had for dinner though.

A short little excuse of a man with a fragile penus, yet man bosoms enough to compensate, approached me while I was huddled in outside the family circle with the piñata family business owners. With a grunted shout of many a gangster hood, he beckoned me with a “HEY!”.

My long flowing locks of decolores hair mixed with the gentle Modesto Airport District breeze as I tilted my head back and with the grace of a dominatrix ballerina, I tilted my head back to face his rotting hypocritical Christian faith of basking in the fervor of self-righteousness. As though one was dousing himself with gasoline, the still forming crowd formed a perfect circle around us as I replied, “WHAT!?”

“WHAT’S THAT INTERNET ADDRESS!?”

“WHAT INTERNET ADDRESS!?”

“THAT INTERNET ADDRESS YOU WROTE ABOUT ME!”

“OH! THAT INTERNET ADDRESS!”

“HEY! I DIDN’T KILL ‘EM!”

“HEY! I NEVER SAID YOU DID!”

“I WANT THAT INTERNET ADDRESS!”

“OH YEAH?! I WANNA KNOW WHY YOU KICK THE WHITE PEOPLE OUT FOR 15 OR 30 DAYS BUT YOU KICKED THE BLACK MAN OUT FOR 6 MONTHS! I TOLD YOU HE WAS GOING TO DIE! I ASKED YOU FOR A SECOND CHANCE! I TOLD YOU I WOULD WATCH HIM FROM FIVE TO SEVEN AND NOT LET HIM IN DRUNK! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!”

And some other things were said. Afterwards many people that had witnessed my ordeal, commented on how surprised they were that I did not hit the man. Because they say they would have….long ago.

Hank Williams moved to the Modesto Airport District with his family in 1960. Hank is 60 now (just had his birthday in November) and has been a consistent heroin/methadone addict for 30 years.

Hank was arrested in October of 2010 on some drug possession warrants and served approximately 30 – 45 days in the County Jail. Hank has not used heroin since his arrest. I would know if he had, trust me. I have known Hank since 1977.

Hank is an alcoholic. Hank has been an alcoholic for approximately 45 years. When Hank drinks he gets a little grouchy. Hank drank a fifth of vodka one night, mistakenly thinking that he could control himself for his stay at the Modesto Gospel Mission that evening. Hank was wrong. Hank was a little grouchy.

Hank said a bad word and was kicked out the Modesto Gospel Mission for 15 days.

Last night, as I was making my rounds like a wet-nurse throughout the cribs of the Modesto Airport Business District, I happened upon Mr. Williams in a Jack in the Box dining room, so cold, one would oddly think of disrobing.

Two homeless people rushed me. “HANK GOT KICKED OUT. HANK GOT KICKED OUT FOR 15 DAYS”

“Fifteen day kick?”, I asked, since at other times of the year, one can stay at the mission for 30 days and then is kicked out for another 15 – they call it the 15 day - kick cycle. It was implemented shortly after their move from across the taco trucks on 8^th Street next door to what has evolved into the Dan Costa 5.11 Armory.

“NO HE CUSSED.”

“What did you do Hank?”, I asked hank sitting at a center dining room table. His only reply was a continuation of his constant muttering.

So Hank spent the night walking up and down Yosemite Ave. at least until after the bars closed. I know this because I saw his face as I was zipping up my jacket enroot to the Vietnamese War Station, which upon my arrival was fraught with fat trailer trash Americans whom had mistaken it for a Winchell’s.

And just as much to my dismay, the old man was there. “YOU CAN’T PARK THERE!”, the old man said to the fat, putrid and un-shaven American scum.

“I’LL PARK THERE IF I WANT! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? WRITE ME A TICKET?!”, the scummy lard ass replied, yet more so seemingly motivated by the laughter of the toothless tramps he had in tow.

And it just went on like that.

And last but not least, I can hardly wait to see the look on Modesto Chief of Police, Harden and Stanislaus County Sheriff Adam Christianson’s face when my 10,000 strong army marches through the Modesto Downtown donning pink regalia.

Can you?

To Read about Hank 3 years ago as he was mischaracterized as a con-artist by the McClatchy Pravda, the Modesto Bee, click here:

http://www.modbee.com/2008/11/21/507316/panhandlers-emerge-as-holidays.html

To Read other articles relating to the Modesto Airport District and Civil Rights in general throughout the county, click here (WARNING – MAY LEAD TO JOINING THE RESISTANCE):

http://stanford4modesto.blogspot.com

To join the resistance, click here:

http://followajfollowstanford.blogspot.com

The Green Slime of Envy Coats The Hypocrites Of Modesto's Most Gracious

2011-01-30T11:52:00.000-08:00

The Green Slime of Envy Coats The Hypocrites Of Modesto's Most Gracious
By
Robert Stanford

Last Sunday I played host to the only memorial for the Black, homeless man that was murdered by a professed NAZI.

Quite the contrast it will be tomorrow. I have already been recieving calls from youtube, trying to get me to advertise next to the first response video.

At the funeral I put on last Sunday, the Modesto Bee wanted to charge me $66.00 for the announcement in the paper and an obituary.

I combined the two and only got like 5 lines. No room to mention who my client was.

And the only person to show up, was my other client that hung out with the first one.

That was after Shelter Cove shunned me as though I were Satan himself, from their Muratore driven - Church in the park. I guess they found my radio show.

If I had cordoned off the street in the same area as the recent triple shooting of the Asian Market, I would have gotten anywhere up to two or maybe (though a long shot) - 3 people to attend.

It was like the 100th funeral that I had performed since I came to Airport District on a case given to me by past president, Gladys Williams with the local NAACP.

She thought that the case would help my image in the Black community, since with the assistance of the Modesto Bee and other local ethnically centered organizations, I had been identified as a Klu Klux Klan member, attempting to infiltrate the minority community.

I felt incensed, particularly since my elderly, aging grandmother was also subjected to this same harassment. By Wendy Byrd, and many other names that might suprise you (or not) and the Modesto Bee.

Dunbar, in particular gave me the cold shoulder, begging my intensity on a cell phone one day, in which my Grandmother became so rattled by the shock she experienced to my reaction to the Bee, and dropped a cigarette while I was driving her to her hair appointment.

As we pulled over, she paid no attention to the burn from the cigarette on her thigh, as she kept asking me if I was going to take any guns with me to go and fight- "The Klan".

Similar to what those hoodlums with modarchano and copwatch tried to do to me.

Similar to what Law Enforcement and District Attorney are finding out the CANNOT do to me.

But you know, Laa Dee Daa - Laa Daa Dee - It's an activist's life for me.

What a bunch of crap. This had better be worth it, or I got a thing or two to say to Jesus Christ himself.

Gentle Be The Night

2011-01-28T21:51:00.000-08:00

Gentle Be The Night

Robert Stanford

On January 25^th in the afternoon, 3 people were shot in a Modesto Airport District Asian Market. That was a few days before the time of this writing. Spending long hours in the epicenter of the Modesto Airport Business District, I have decided to disclose some of the events and thoughts of the past couple of days. Just in case someone were to forget…

I inadvertently stole a set of keys last night as I left the Business District for the Residential. Yet another reminder of my state of mind as of late as I felt them inside my black leather pocket while pacing over to the Vietnamese mess hall. An illusion, as it were, perpetrated by a healthy need to run away from runaway thoughts.

With no pertinent song going through my head this evening, I hoped to look up from the antiquated sidewalk beneath my strolling feet to find old man Chino’s car in front of the Vietnamese Refugee Camp. Alas, no car.

“Hurray”! I thought, pedantically to myself, as the grape eating fox in an old fable of lore, as my mind took over my very spirit and replaced my present experience for no more than a split second. Enough time, however, to reminisce of another day.

A day I scanned the antiquated sidewalks of the Airport Business District in desperation. A keen eye on the outlook for a prized set of bottle caps for my collection. Royal Crown.

At the corner of Oregon and Benson, there was an antiquated car repair/tow shop, where old men would gather with their beer and hidden pint-whiskey bottles, speaking of what a bastard Nixon was. Some of the old junkies from the area would need a little nip of sugar and would purchase the only soda-pop that was stocked in the store’s vending machine – Royal Crown.

The pewter looking bottle opener, firmly bolted on one side to the front of the machine’s locked steel and glass door was inoperably broken in half. The owner of the shop was usually too drunk to find the bottle opener I had once brought to him. An offering it was, in exchange for his silence regarding my crimes of ditching and hitching the Pacific from Empire.

The junkies would venture to Yosemite with unopened bottles of RC Cola, and have them opened by various people in various places that happened to have bottle openers. Failing that, they would open them somehow from the Pool shop to the Iron Gate. And it was along this fascinating sidewalk path that I had built my colossal and prized bottle cap collection.

But that was more than thirty years ago now. A much more innocent time, when I was ignorant of all of the stress and suffering about me on the streets of the Modesto Airport District. My only concern being one of getting caught having stowed on the Pacific Railroad train and jumping off from Empire Elementary (now “Teel”) into the Modesto Airport District.

Such a place in memory, cut out so perfectly for escape, until I can see my friend, cooking for the next day’s fare in the back of the Vietnamese Refugee Camp. Another place to run to, away from those things too painful to remind myself are real for today. Swapping Menthol Kools for Cambodian cigarettes and back again, with experience and discussing proclamations about what is cool and what shall be cool. Rolling out the dough of tomorrow, dough stolen from the Americans.

I watched as the storm troopers descended on all that is now left for us of our extended family. A family that was a vital organ in the body that makes up the Modesto Airport Business District. Traffic everyone shared together as the Airport District has grown and evolved through it’s never ending quest for survival – and at times, even recovery. Again and again.

Urged on by others, I boldly jay walked across the street. Proudly holding my Bic lighter in my clenched fist I set at re-lighting the candles, incense and a couple of things I did not recognize back aflame.

The Security Guard at the Gospel Mission finally called me by my proper name again, “Mr. Stanford, how are you this evening?”

“Sad.”, I said.

And then suddenly some lady appeared out of nowhere. One had only to witness her clothes to know that she had probably never been on Yosemite Boulevard before, and had been, like so many others for the past 25 years, deceived by the outer appearance of the Vietnamese Refugee Camp. But we knew how to play our part. Besides, it was American dough – she would never even know the difference.

She did not want to partake of the stolen American dough though – that wasn’t why she was there at all. Just a small cup of Vietnamese “Cup-o-Joe” that within moments she was sobbing into, with her hands shaking out small amounts of the hot liquid, dripping across her fingers as her tears ran down her face, saying all the while,

“I am so so sorry. This is so senseless. Oh God. I am so, so sorry. I put a flower and a little bear in front of their store….Oh God…..”

Our Den mother tried her best to comfort her, “It OK now. They in better place now. It OK.”

As myself and my otherwise giggling confidante looked deep into each other’s eyes, he said, “I don’t know. My friend he say he order some for us. It four dollar. we get five pack. I like only one mint cigarette. I don’t know how you smoke those man.”

“I like the Cambodian ones. Not all the time though”

“Me no like either. The mint. One when you here. But that enough for me.”

The sobbing Lady from out of town looked over at us as though we were horse playing in the pews of her own mother’s funeral. So when she finally allowed our Den Mother to wait on other customers, I followed her out to her car.

“Excuse me. Um. Excuse me. Hi. My name is Robert Stanford, and I just wanted to let you know that I really appreciate someone not from here understanding us. I can tell you understand us. That is very special. I just felt like I should at least say that to you. Thank you. Thank you for caring…”

She looked at me with Betty Davis eyes and said, “What?”

Double Homicide - Triple Shooting - Modesto Police Department Let's 2 Women Lay On Floor Dying

2011-01-25T20:13:00.000-08:00

In a matter of moments the Modesto Police Department was able to respond with 2 firetrucks and 10 - 15 police vehicles.

Two women lay in the building dying of gunshot wounds. But the Modesto Police Department could not manage to provide an ambulance and paramedics for quite some time.

Resist the New World Order.

Perhaps these officers only regret, is that they could not have shot these people themselves.

Suicide By Behavior - Terry Nicholson 1965 - 2010

2010-12-30T19:52:00.000-08:00

People literally die every day. They have for some time now, but I could not quite tell you the last time in the history of the city of Modesto at least, that there has been a day without death of one cause or another.

Though there have been literally hundreds of days that people may have died, but not anyone that I had any type of connection with socially or otherwise. The days between those days have become fewer days in between as of late however.

A few of these days ago, it was Christmas again in the Modesto Airport District and other areas throughout the city as well. Tevan Nicholson, known to me and several others as Terry, was found mortally injured in a house not far from where we have chatted daily for approximately the past four months now. Long enough to offer up interesting anecdotes and stories regarding our time together, however briefly one may say it had a quality for me that was useful in describing the negative aspects of outreach advocacy.

In other words, Terry was the poster child of how useless and futile my progress has been in affecting lives and returning to another part of the city with methodology that can be counted on as effective in the solution of “poverty problems” for the “rest of the population”.

Terry was quite the challenge – every day – In the early mornings, 7 to 9 am, I could catch Terry sitting on an obscure curb in the Yosemite Jack In The Box parking lot, reading. We would discuss various authors, often trading several names in rapid fire succession, seeking for recognition within each other’s memory.

But after about 9 in the morning, the conversation would begin to change as a mutual friend of ours, Ricky, would rise from his “camp” slumber around 10 in the morning – every day, mind you. That was before the weather began to change to a tepid chill in the nights. For then Ricky and Terry had foregone their camps to reside in the mission. This would mean that they could not stay out until 9 or 10 o’clock at night, as Ricky normally camped at this time, with Terry following, if he had been lucky enough not to be arrested that day for public intoxication.

Both of them were able to take up residence at the mission, however, it was no more than a week at the most, that one of the Black Shirts (a term many of the Mission residents use to describe the staff) banned Terry from the Mission for six months.

It was far later than the 9 Am threshold for Terry. Terry was quite verbally abusive by this time to anyone he thought were not willing to either give him change for a beer, cigarettes or food. This of course was inclusive of everyone, except for “Mr. Stanford”. I had a free pass because I was a “beautiful man” and Terry would drone on and on how I was the only person that ever gave him two dollars. I didn’t have to, but I did. I did that for him. I am a beautiful man. But to everyone else, including our mutual friend, Ricky, it was, “bend over bitch. Let me fuck you up the ass. Shit if you don’t want to just give me fifty cent. Fifty cent. God damn, that ain’t much!”

It was that kind of talk that got him kicked out of the Mission. I did happen to catch the Black Shirt that had banished Terry into the cold, one night in the Vietnam Refuge Donut Salon, parked like a 25 year old RV right next door to the Mission.

Often the Black Shirts roam in, like eugenically rogue Modesto Police officers and order their sixty-five cent donut and eighty-five cent small coffee, making small talk with the frightened refugees behind the counter and saying ad-noseum, “praise God”. “Praise Jesus”. “Glory be unto him”.

It was during one of these “look how much I act like Jesus” diatribes of the Black Shirt, that I caught him off guard by actually making conversation – “Hey, there’s this black guy that you kicked out of the mission last night……”

“Hey, I know you have a heart for these people, but they gotta follow the rules.”

“I understand that, but look, what if I come with him and have dinner every night and stay until he goes to bed – I can keep him calm for you.”

“Sorry bud, no can do. He knows the rules. He broke ‘em. My hands are tied ‘brother’. Have you tried the other shelter at 9^th and D?”

“Yeah, I’m working on that – I hear they have a breathalyzer though – my guy’s not going to be able to pass that. Look, we’re going to have some freezes pretty soon and I don’t wanna to pick this guy up in a body bag along the river. Can you please, just let me come with him and stay with him until it’s lights out.”

“I gotta go bud. God bless you.” He summed up, extending his gritty slimy hand, like his shit didn’t stink.

“Allright, look”, I said, “ I will let you know about the Red Shield ok, but if I have to, I’ll go to the office during the day. I can’t leave him in the frost.”

I knew of course, how bad Terry got between the hours of nine to nine every day. Drunk. Belligerent and oh so verbally assaulting. Because, it was not more than perhaps a week before my plea to the Black Shirt that I had gone into the Jack In the Box to acquire some tacos for a junky senior citizen sitting in Terry’s morning spot.

But this was before the nights pushed many into the Mission. Several of us would converge at the same spot where Terry and me would discuss literature in the mornings. As I came out of the restaurant, I was consumed by a mother’s force of will to defend Terry from five white teens beating on him with their fists.

The automation of my actions took me almost as much by surprise as my sudden increased strength. So much so, that shortly after freeing Terry from this hate crime, the little Okie red-neck’s returned with their numbers doubled and wielding a machete during my ensuing 911 call.

After the dust settled and I spoke with the police, once again later that evening, one officer said, “Hey your friend got a free pass today, but we had to kick him out of Jack in The Box. He laid down and was going to sleep on the floor, right in front of the counter!”

For the next several days, my routine walks through the Airport Business District was comprised of scenery and reminders – SS symbols and White Power slogans. On telephone poles and crosswalk controls.

A few days after my altercation with the Black Shirt at the Vietnamese Massaged Donut Parlor, Terry boldly came to my work. And as I met him at the door, the first thing I asked him was, “So, what did you just get out of jail again?”

“No man. I’ve been sober for two days!”, he replied with his scrunched up eyebrows launching a celebration of sobriety. I was able to enjoy 3 more days of Terry’s sobriety after that.

Terry never wanted me to video tape him or take his picture, so I cannot show you what he looked like. Though it would be nice if the McClatchy Bee Pravda would take some sympathetic time to provide these things, it would probably not fit their “homeless elimination” agenda.

I could probably fill in the missing pieces that led to Terry’s injuries at the hands of this neo-nazi skin-head – but, even he has little to worry about.

No one really cares about Terry. Not even the false prophet Black Shirt that shrugged his shoulders in the name of God when he condemned Terry to die, if not from the freeze, then by the Nazi disease.

Rest in peace my friend, we will meet again.

In Loving Memory - Terry Nicholson 1965 – 2010

P.S.

Terry, God even loves the vacuum guy. I’ll tell him you said hello! Naw, just kidding!

Joe Muratore Is A Nazi

2010-11-28T11:54:00.000-08:00

Joe Muratore Is A Nazi

By

Robert Stanford

During the 2009 Modesto City Council Campaign, I ran against Joe Muratore, otherwise now to be known simply as - Nazi Joe, for the Modesto City Council District 4 seat. A four year term, in which in the two years previous to the election, I had fought to have the Modesto Airport District included in the District, under the false assumption that the vast population of the working class would come out to vote for “one of their own”.

Much of the campaign consisted of long and hot days of going door to door, literally asking individuals to vote for me. It was during this time that I received complaints concerning Nazi Joe, that one of his greatest campaign promises was to “get rid of the homeless people”. His solution to the homeless question, was simply this - “eliminate the free services for the poor and the homeless will leave”.

Backed by the La Loma narcissistic and aged “homeowner’s association” who’s primary claim to fame is their clandestine agenda, which was, as Nazi Joe so elegantly put it many times before being “counseled”, was the “elimination of human blight”.

It did not take long for Nazi Joe to begin attempts to make good on his campaign promises. The first whiff of his siege against the poor, came through a slip of the tongue of Nazi Joe’s, second in command, the ultra-conservative fair weather patron of Carmen Sabatino’s restaurant, Modesto City Council member David Geer.

He mentioned to me the interchange of e-mails between, at the least of a quorum, he and Nazi Joe, in which the phrase “homeless elimination” had been used. Since I had ranted rather harshly regarding a group of home-grown terrorists that had vandalized the historic McHenry Mansion, situated besides a recently, closed to the poor - newly privatized park, aptly named, “McClatchy”, it was rather easy for Councilmember Geer to boast about “coming in under the wire” of Brown Act violations and discussing a permanent end to homelessness in the City of Modesto directly by their physical removal to somewhere outside the city limits.

I could feel then, the dark and foreboding clouds of Nazi Joe’s holocaust for the homeless gathering to destroy my life’s work. Work that, to Nazi Joe, and all others like him that sit fat and happy beneath the very site of Chinese rail road slaughter in our long forgotten history, sneer at as though homelessness and poverty is nothing but a conspiracy propagated by those with ulterior motives. But it is well known that these are not their true feelings. Their true feelings are much more terrible, inhumane and horrific than that.

In October, Nazi Joe blurted a sudden announcement that gained marginal publication in the McClatchy “the only good Chinese is a dead Chinese” perverted rag, The Modesto Bee, that there was to be a special item on the agenda of the Public Safety Committee meeting, put forth, of course by none other than Nazi Joe himself - a proposed ordinance to criminalize the charity of those to gift in public parks or peaceably assemble.

Carmen Sabatino attended this meeting and immediately called attention to an “outright attack” against the homeless. The tape of the meeting shows that though the Sab was successful in getting Nazi Joe to withdraw his item under the auspices of insufficient preparation, Sab’s points were still withered and lost by personal encroachments into his monologue. Namely, the passé complaints of the disillusion of La Loma Neighborhood Association’s questionable tax status with the state and the possible contamination of McClatchy park because there “had once been a gas station there”.

However, notwithstanding the Sab’s valiant attempts of squashing Nazi Joe’s onslaught against one of the few caveats still in existence that his PMZ machine had not yet laid to waste, Nazi Joe made some statements that should not be forgotten or left to rot much like his soul will most certainly rot in the very bowels of hell.

“I’ve got a list of the largest groups that are involved in this sort of thing. What I want to do is get a meeting together - get’ em all at one table…and propose that we have a … uh…free - easy - non-prohibitive permit process…um….that allows us tooo…that effectively encourages these groups to go to uh places like Beardbrook Park where there’s…uh it’s close to the mission and close to the downtown. There’s already bathrooms. There’s already programs happening…uh…but it’s also out of the way of parks like Ralston Tower and Tower Park. It’s a fit for….all all of the parties. I’m not so much worried about the larger groups that do these feedings all of the time, I think they’ll be on board with this. It’s more for the, you know, guy that’s feeding Top Ramen out of the back of a van. We don’t know this guy. We don’t know how to reach this guy, but if there is a permit process than our police officers are coming by and there’s a guy handing Top Ramen out of the back of his van they can say, ‘hey, thank you for doing this - do you have a permit? Oh, well you know, this is really easy, it won’t be hard. It’s not prohibitive, but here’s our process so…”

Not prohibitive. So basically what this means, if I got a donation, which I do from time to time and I take it down to Graceda Park and commence sharing it with anyone without acquiring a permit which would “prohibit“ me from doing it in the first place, I can be fined and charged with a misdemeanor.

Nazi Joe appeals to his La Loma Association and says emphatically, that there are people that do not want the homeless.

On November 4th 2010, Nazi Joe and the Public Safety Committee again broached

this issue, however, this time the largest corporate non-profits were also in attendance, rubbing their hands at the prospect of the elimination through legal legislative means of their competition for donations and grants, by limiting all services for the poor and having everything channeled through their organizations.

Nazi Joe called it a Blue Ribbon Committee on the homeless. Only these corporate non-profits would be allowed to participate in this committee, until of course the vote for the ordinance outlawing gifting and the right to peaceably assemble could go before the pre-destined Modesto City Council, at which time, just like the German courts of Nazi era Germany and more recently as has been seen at StanCog meetings, locally, you would be allowed the protest, but there would be no way to sway the totalitarian votes. All for the good of the wealthy residents of the City of Modesto - not the majority, but rather the minority of the general public that lives here.

I think the most telling statement recently made by Nazi Joe, was this one -

“I don’t think that 2,000 homeless people should have free reign over the city of Modesto. It’s not fair to the other 200,000.”

To listen to the ego-maniacal ravings of Nazi Joe and see for yourself how we are under siege from Nazi Joe the Modesto City Council Nazi regime go to:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/stanford4modesto/2010/11/15/the-stanford-fireside-chat-with-guest-voice--joe-m

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

The Dumpster Diving Shopping Cart Princess

2010-10-06T17:44:00.000-07:00

The Dumpster Diving Shopping Cart Princess

By Robert Stanford

For the life of me, I cannot remember when or where it was that I met Kristen Olsen. Though I do remember her triumphant defeat over Denny Jackman at the election of her first term. Though not as vividly as I remember her last campaign for her second term against my friend and ally, Joe Catalina.

But our paths have crossed many times since her victory over Jackman. I believe that she was there at an HLC (Hispanic Leadership Council) meeting, at which I had the honor to introduce Modesto Police Department Chief Roy Wasden as the speaker one morning.

This was when the Modesto Police Department’s body count was still low enough to warrant my entry into fanciful thoughts…

Bringing to me my forgotten ways, Kristen Olsen has certainly made impressions upon me that I shall carry to my very grave grave. Her drive had always reminded me of Virginia Madueno’s, sincere, steadfast and true. A true “patriot” as it were. Extremely attractively admirable and divine.

So much so in fact, that I do believe that there was, still is, and always shall be a definite spectacularly special connection. Two activist passions blend as one. An understanding exists that is of utmost importance of requiring attention because I do believe that our goals are similar. Such as was demonstrated in my hand written logs as I followed her work on the dumpster diving and shopping cart retrieval ordinances.

It was upon taking the time to go back in time with these logs to 2007 and 2008 in which I rediscovered the Kristen Olsen that I once knew on many occasions to be “one of us”.

Nearly a decade I have known this individual and through independent reflection on Kristen Olsen, given to involuntary bouts of empathetic grandiose fantasy, fantasy in which I am not a victim of the brainwashing that my associations have left me with – inclusiveness so much as to cause great ignorance in channeled thought, just like a 3 gram letter flying through a rustic hotel shoot, such as they had once installed into the Modesto Hotel Covell. But you would never know, to look at it now…..

Oh, oh, oh…..but I digress!

I also whine a lot. So much so in fact, that I have perfected it to a harmonic quality – like the sound of leather being ripped apart in a brand new Rolls-Royce, with Don Theil screaming from the wheel, “Robert!! God-damn it. Now you just stop that right now”! – I can see that happening in his lot…..it’s hard to look at him in the eye now, 15 years later after my tremendous alcohol prohibitionistic campaign ripped across Stanislaus like a tornado on cross-tops and whiskey. You know, driven all night…..

Oh, oh, oh…..but I digress!

And now Kristen Olsen shall represent us in the 25th. That suddenly has become important to me and it’s revelations was brought to a simmer today as I discovered the horrible truth behind the Turlock stylized permit program implemented by the La Loma Neighborhood Association through Mr. Joe Muratore. A young stud of a politician, indeed.

I have taken Joe Muratore under my wing. He’s a good kid. More than that, he is an excellent leader. He is just a little off on this one, that’s all. He’ll learn.

I know he wants Kristen Olsen to succeed as much as I do. I am sure I will be able to save him from political suicide if he were to re-yoke our emissary to the 25th. He would never knowingly do anything to soil her. Defile her as it were. Send her off into that cold, dark night in which only God himself knows what may roam about, lying in wait for our beautifully illustrious and gorgeous ambassador of the City of Modesto.

In no way would Joe Muratore want to have Kristen Olsen’s name attached to a city council that would pass such an ordinance as to in affect gather from all the parks any social services and have them only allowed in certain parks.

It will be Airport VS. La Loma all over again!

They talk about sending patrols into the Airport “Neighborhood”. Sheep to a slaughter. Every town needs some local heroes that they can honor posthumously. Why not Crime Tek? I wonder if they will accept gang money from gang households. Or drug money from crack houses. Survey says…….

Oh, oh, oh…..but I digress!

My Yosemite Business Watch is going very well, but unfortunately for the majority of the population in the Modesto Airport Business Central District, a close straight shot to the end of La Loma Avenue and you have Scotty’s Donuts and the mission, the homeless have been complaining about an unusually high amount of police harassment lately. And after they were doing what I told them to do, that really kind of pissed me off….but of course what are blogs for, right? It’s actually working in my favor, because it allows me the opportunity to apologize through taking the time to explain to them why I think they are being harassed by the MPD. So now, less of them are so convinced that I am law enforcement. They open up more then, so it is indeed an ongoing goal to try to convince them that I am not law enforcement, short of shooting up or drinking with them. It’s much different then working with Mexican immigrants, these people – the homeless – they really don’t network very well. News does not get very far. Probably because it gets nodded out and forgotten too soon along the line.

So now it’s all about Stanford Watch.

Yesterday, some freaked out and weird deaf guy, probably off of his meds, lost a sandal at the entrance of the service entrance in the back of Scotty’s Donuts (and other fare). He was like a crazed bear looking for maple syrup as he battered on the back door leaving, in what my eyes always appears to be, a Vietnamese refugee from Cambodia terrified. Get him go way. Get him go way.

Chin, once the Queen of Nova Scotia, Vietnam – (Medium Saigon) has yet to forgive me for the outside 4th camera being stolen. But honestly, it was not my fault. She should blame the MPD.

It took me 30 minutes to compassionately get this guy to leave. Lots of gesturing. That was like 5:30 in the morning. I hadn’t even had my coffee yet….but it was a learning experience. And what I learned most was that now, if I cross my arms in a certain way, I look like 1,000 pound gorilla in heat. Not to be confused with the current Sheriff of Stanislaus County, Sheriff Adam “Monkey Man” Christianson.

Ye Olde Rob Ronning’s Gift Shop is like and old west blacksmith shop in a ghost town surrounded by Mexican desert…..depending on where you stand…….

To be a moral American is to give Rob Ronnings the benefit of the doubt.

The same should be said for the deputy that shot that poor defenseless woman, that from what I understand at this time, didn’t even have a gun…….but what do I know? I said the same thing about the execution of Andy Raya. Then suddenly I was glorifying a cop-killer. Was it because I was anti-law enforcement? No. It was because I was pro Andy Raya. Isn’t that horrible?

But look what the Modesto Bee did to Rob. They did not even give him the proper Airport District recognition that he deserved. East Modesto….he was still on “our” side of the border.

But I guess it all comes down to being a good American….you know, innocent before proven guilty. To be judged by a jury of your peers.

And even after that, there is a definite percentage of individuals that truly are innocent. Through the propaganda of media, the government, public schools and most other aspects of inner-city society right here in the United States our laws become dictated through moral democratic votes. Usually by those we elect to vote on our behalf.

Such as the lifelong tattoo of a single felony for less and less heinous offenses. By all rights they should be misdemeanors. But we are taught that once a criminal always a criminal. There is becoming less and less second chances. The morality meter is off the fucking scale. In other words….pass me that bong, I need to get off.

Sorry, I had to calm down…..

And so it goes……

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Recession, Depression and Correction

2010-09-11T14:21:00.000-07:00

Recession, Depression and Correction

By

Robert Stanford

As one looks about themselves, as if anyone actually would, they see the plight that has been brought upon the working individuals and families.

It does not matter from which vantage point observations are made. All across America, it is the same. So many people losing everything they have worked for all of their lives to obtain.

Homes well into foreclosure, record numbers of individuals and families on food stamps and aid for dependent children. Charitable organizations are experiencing demand like never before with funding and donations at all-time lows.

Like the eerie creaks from within a building, on the verge of collapse, so too, is our socio-economic structure showing the foreboding signs of certain doom A catastrophe that very well may make stern separations between the strong and the weak. A rigid division between the rich and the poor.

In a desperate attempt to secure Western civilization’s standards to coincide with the expectation of American citizens, the federal government pelts funds on the local level with conditions of demonstrative need, hoping to keep the wolves of discontent away from the gates of the oval office for just another day.

And in so doing, it would seem, to many a conservative and liberal alike, that a grand conspiracy is afoot. A master plan as it were to harvest what toil is left from the American masses by perpetuating a dependence upon the American Government, from Washington DC to the local level. A direct refusal to allow the natural cycles of free enterprise to reinvent our socio-economic way of life through death and rebirth from its own ashes.

All counties throughout the United States are being infused with general assistance and food stamp funds. Unemployment, just a year ago was on the verge of insolubility, and now has now been unnaturally extended several times. And local law enforcement agencies across the nation have had a steady infusion of cash – million and millions of dollars funneled to them, causing fake prosecutions, planted evidence and what appears to many to be the granting of prematurely derived federal powers to local officers through spontaneous deputations.

There is a dependency that has weakened and threatens to completely annihilate the American spirit.

Already, most Americans today consider the proverbial American dream, nothing more than a cruel hoax.

Meanwhile, the American people become addicted to the blame game for emotional relief and as a way to preserve what little self-respect they still have left.

Immigration – both legal and otherwise becomes an immediate prime target. The concepts which become immediately acceptable are mostly comprised of generalizations that encompass all immigrants and for the sake of providing venting comfort, the negative aspects are singled out, embellished to an extreme and redundantly chanted through sensationalistic media and wide spread word of mouth, so that the definition of immigration and only it’s negative assets become common and collective knowledge.

The same begins to hold true for those that look down upon others that have fallen further down through the socio-economic ranks to a status of intense poverty. Compassion and empathy no longer stands on its own as a naturally occurring social value.

More and more we see that to be maintained, these values must be propagated by churches, charity groups and local community leaders. As though these groups and leaders were like coaches, pushing an exhausted sports team to finish out a losing game and remain respectfully good sports to the other side, regardless of the point – spread mentality of each individual player.

Since even before the technological miracles spurned by the tumultuous and now all but forgotten necessities of invention of World War II, contemporary American society still has yet to ask where all their time is going now.

With a third of everyone’s lives spent sleeping and another third spent with brain wave flattening television viewing, the other third is spent amongst fast food, star bucks, drugs and alcohol and these days, if one is so fortunate, under-paid and overly taxed labor generally for a corporate interest as opposed to private small businesses.

In the mid 1970’s it was found that many children in the urban areas of California (Bay Area and Los Angeles) believed that agricultural products were manufactured, rather than grown and harvested. This misconception was prevalent in the most disparate areas of the metropolises and occurred despite information that available to them otherwise via the sixty to eighty hours per week of television viewing informing them otherwise (PBS).

Since the 1970’s the urban areas have grown immensely throughout California, encompassing both North and South and our children born of generations since, have had even less exposure to information programming credited to the advent of redundant VCR/DVD/Tivo recordings and violent video games that glorify brutally criminal violence.

Diets of the masses that were still in the 1970’s at least partially balanced to adhere somewhat with Governmental recommended daily nutritional allowances have now become saturated with trans- fats, sugars and corn syrup.

As a rule, American civics and the study of what is arguably America’s most important historical lessons, such as World War II and the Great Depression are hardly even mentioned throughout the course of a students primary American education today.

American education has become a bureaucracy that has created a “teach to the test” type of an education and as a result, drop out statistics and general populace illiteracy rates have soared to proportions never seen before in contemporary American history.

All that the American people ask of themselves, their community and their Government today, is nothing more than immediate gratification, verbal reassurances for token ideals that reflect mocked values and stimulus funds aimed at cruel and unusual immigration reform so they might be able to acquire the easiest to be had jobs – food service and hotel/motel labor.

And for the news and other media on the television radio and major internet sites, there is nothing more than one huge distraction. A preoccupation of events much larger than ourselves and our individual lives despite the paltry taxes we pay, we constantly insist that all our needs be provided for us.

Our survival skills are now only honed to build a retirement to bed at the end of a look for work day or work day.

The prophesies set forth by Orwell’s 1984 or Huxley’s Brave New World have already come to pass, though society at large still consider these concepts to be no more than extraordinary literary fiction.

Both of these works written in a story-like fashion and at a time when the only acceptability of concepts such as these could be had was through the subtle delivery of fictional prose.

So easy then today, it’s just a story. And even easier now, as such reference to ideology such as this provides comfort from the American Governmental storm as we turn a blind eye to atrocities occurring in our very neighborhoods and business districts all around us, while a handful of greedy autocrats on every local level clamber for United States Federal Stimulus dollars.

Even now, as our neighbors are taken away from us in shackles, accused of the most heinous of crimes and immoral turpitudes, we dare not lift our gaze in any demonstration of support for the innocence granted by the United States constitution as an inalienable right, lest we ourselves might suffer a similar fate and spend the rest of our lives in a prison, never to breath free air again.

Our journey’s to imprisonment are being christened by rogue cops, corrupt district attorneys and an ever-increasingly corporate government overseer.

God help us all, for we certainly seem entirely incapable of making a single stand for our brothers and sisters falling victim to faceless greed.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

White Rabbit

2010-08-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

By
Robert Stanford

“The White Rabbit is cunning. She hippity-hops from here to there, they say. And all around us are her spies. Our King no longer recognizes friend from foe. Do not trust to hope. For it has abandoned these lands.”

Once my abilities, those that once were assumed by the Dark King and his slobbering beast of a man, to be nothing more than feigned prophetic visions of fabricated grandiosity were discovered to be much more than myth, the world changed.

Those whom I once knew became strangers and likewise, those whom were once strangers became friends.

The landscape changed before my very eyes and within the confines of the place in which I stood to the horizon, it was all suddenly transformed into a checkerboard in which there were now many more than just the one King.

Red and Black revealed themselves to me for what they really are – Black and Red.

Then – without warning, like the starts or stops of a reign, there was nothing more to see then chessmen. Their differences as distinct as Night and Day - Black and White.

A glance to my left, was all that comforted me, as I set my now suspiciously confused and apprehensive gaze on what I could see so plainly to be my Queen – the White Rabbit, whom had been ever to me nothing more than my friend and ally.

Still, she stood, strong beside me, in spite of my misplaced grievances and ill news beget, she had remained always so faithful. Always so true. I could see it in her eyes. I could smell it in her perfume just as well as I could feel it in her rhythmic and contemporary voice.

“Dark have been my days of late.”, I admitted to her as a confession of apology for my drunken blindness and feverish abuse for so very long.

“Stand up strong and breath the free air again, my friend. We are one and the same.” She replied, stretching out her hand as though she may have been showing me the doorway of a magnificent castle.

And before us, ever so gradually, there began to appear a symmetrical line of mighty soldiers all standing tall and proud before us.

“How can this be?” I queried of the White Rabbit, who was now looking at a phone she had pulled from the pouch of her apron, as though she were a kangaroo. “I’m late. I’m late!”

As we quickly scurried away from our secret garden of quiet discontent, we were met by the Dark King.

Through a debauchery comprised of little more than mimosas, pasta and ever so subtle forgetfulness, he shrugged toward us as though the White Rabbit and me had been practicing our multiplication tables.

And then he snapped. At me, “Can you not see? The color of your only Lord and King? And the position of my pieces?”

For many years, fiercely and bravely, at such a great cost, had I fought for this man and now my own tiara caused him paranoia, suspicion and disdain for everything I was in potential or reality within the circumference of that day. No longer was I nothing more than a sacrificial pawn. And this displeased the Dark King.

On the outskirts of my own lands, Avian Dominica, there lived yet, another King. A strong and noble ox of a man who’s gaze upon me was clearer then my own, ever since I had pulled a thorn from the paw cruelly placed there from grossly deformed hyena of the night that lived through a barren wasteland of gibberish only spoken by transistors in an ascii language – The very essence and definition of a digital whore.

Bit and nipped was he from her libelous tongue and power mad passions of Amazon proportion so putrid that to all it be well known as a poorly paid echo of wild fascistic bores, that had on more than one occasion ravaged, pillaged and plundered his very kingdom. A kingdom that had blended and nurtured my own for more than decade.

Our flags flew together as the spirits of our forefathers filled our armory and taught us leadership, spiritualism and destiny all within heartbeats that now measured all time for me. Each one was and is – precious to me.

Through the electronic looking glass, the Dark King and his bloated jester boasted of their positions and decided that White was not right for them.

Like Krugerans dropped down within the grates of a sewer drain at the end of a gutter by a rich man who would carelessly assume they were nothing more then bothersome pennies, never would he think toward his final day that they would have served well to cover his eyes, The slothful ones allowed their deceitful plotting to be cast as dungeons and dragons die, into the shadows of cyberspace itself.

Not only to be cherished as an omen by their now exiled ally and true King, but to cut like a serrated dagger, into the heart of my pure, White Rabbit Queen, as well. My very Queen.

From beyond the stonewall, there was lobbed the poisen arrow from yet even another King that had accumlluated the cannon blalls of deciept and treachery. And from the diction of what had once appeared to be my sworn enemy came yet another omen – that of the black raven that harkened into the life of myself and my brillian White Rabbit Queen the very confirmation of our thoth tarto death card – “Nevermore”, illuminated as neon by the chakra – Teperith.

And the King that ruled mighty and supreme just at the border of my own kingdom, took me into his bunker with maps and quills in hand to share with me the rules of engagement for a war in which both of us now, could see so clearly to navigate, fathom and fight to save our own keep. To save our own people.

With every passing beat of my heart, all that was fair, noble and true was revealed to me by the burning light of my muscles.

AS portraits of faces painted by the silt from the fires in which my muscles bathed, coarsed through my veins like charging unicorns, my men were revealed to me. Men for me to bring to the table of Kings.

And upon the repetitive contemplation of these faces, like characters in a play, their roles became encircled in time itself. What was now, was then, as well as it was forever.

What a fool I was. To have allowed myself for so long to be deceived and trapped within the web of monotonous litany of the evil forked tongue of the obese man servant to the Dark King.

Nothing on earth or in the heavens above me could ever have compared in any vein attempt to rival worm tongue and Doctor Demntia as a more revealing muse for Dante to complete his premero Inferno.

But my people are safe. Because they are aware. Awareness that is infinite in it’s expance of that particular cirle of time in which lives the very definitions of your Lord and Your King. All the Kings men, my people and my friends.

Like Gods must we be.

So right, so beautiful, so powerful, pure and true.

“How can this be?”

By my very command, it is so – “Change Places!!”

Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved – Robert Stanford

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

The Steve “Juice” Jacobson Sex Tape

2010-07-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

The Juice, (Steve Jacobson with the Stanislaus County District Attorney’s office) did not know that he was on surveillance camera. Even if he had, it probably would not have stopped him from pushing the envelope and himself on a young lady working at AJ’s Bail Bonds the day that has now become known as the “Charade Raid”.

Better make sure she doesn’t grab the wrong file. Better make sure she doesn’t try to pull a fast one. Sexual harassment under the color of law? In Stanislaus County? Watch for yourself. Watch the Juice, Jacobson manipulate the powers of his badge to get his own sneak peak of the young office girl.

The Stanislaus County Fourth Reich AKA the District Attorney

2010-07-04T20:00:00.000-07:00

The Stanislaus County Fourth Reich AKA the District Attorney
By
Robert W. Stanford

There are some that say the District Attorney and Sheriff County Seats should not be elected positions. Instead of justice and integrity of the legal system, instead we seem to witness more politically driven policy and procedure. I’m not talking about the ones they announce at what few press conferences they ever dare to have outside of their “campaign time”, but rather, policies and procedures that the general public is unaware of. Until now.

On February 2nd 2010 the “Central Valley Gang Impact Task Force”, which is basically an inter-departmental anti-gang terrorism co-op, lead by Steve P. Jacobson served a search warrant, citing orders coming straight from the wagging tongue of Birgit Fladager, District Attorney, the “elected” District Attorney of Stanislaus for nothing more than a single file folder. A file for defendant Gonzalo Rigoberto Lopez Lozaro. They hadn’t bothered to just “ask” for the file. And it was based on this far-fetched littlest of a thing, that they were able to convince Stanislaus County Judge Jack M. Jacobson (Mr. Rubber Stamp Your Forehead!) to sign a search warrant with just as much probable cause as the item mentioned.

Steve P. Jacobson, known on the street and internet as the “Juice” (and not for complimentary reasons) had already been casing the “joint”. Just a few days before on January 29th 2010 at about 3:15 delivering an “opposition” for the very same defendant. Certainly no vested interest there, now is there…

Soon After, the Juice, accompanied by the “GIT” unit (consisting of 13 law enforcement personnel) Burst into A.J.’s Bail Bonds as though they were running training ops for the New Citizen Brigade of American Homeland Security.

Through the front door they came and spread themselves throughout the building making the most of their military weapons and other accessories like little boys on Christmas day, having just unwrapped GI JOE killem’ all playsets. Fun to be had by all!

But for the business owner and his employees in the building that day, it was certainly not a shared joy. To use an appropriate word used by one of the employees right afterward to describe to me what had just taken place? – “Terrifying”.

Immediately two employees, Brian Valadez and Angelica Arellano were drawn upon leaving their foreheads as the targets of handguns and military rifles.

Lazar Hido is a painter that just happened to be working there that day. His life was threatened as military rifles took aim at the base of his skull and he was ordered off the ladder. Mr. Hido could not move fast enough for them. So in exchange for his life, Mr. Hido forewent the final four steps of the ladder and jumping to the floor some feet above without opportunity to prepare, he felt that the sudden surge of pain in his ankles was a small price to pay for an opportunity to go home to his family that day. Like an animal he was handcuffed and dragged out to be put with the “others”, Arellano and Valadez.

A.J. (Mr. Pontillo) was on the second story of the building in an office, in a meeting with the manager of his front office. When they heard a pounding of the closed door at the end of the stairs, A.J. glanced at the surveillance monitiors and realized it was the police. He got up immediately and began to briskly walk down the stairs, calling out – “Don’t kick the door in. I am coming down. I am unarmed.”

As A.J. opened the door, the officers immediately threatened to kill him while shoving military rifles into his face as though they were attempting to stab him with bayonets.

And immediately following A.J. came the front office manager, Ms. Jannele Llorens. As they had done to the painter in haste, so they also did to A.J. and Llorens and handcuffed them and hauled them out to be with the “others”, in their ongoing fascination driven attempt to “clear out the building” (if you could only hear an echo….).

Now in addition to Mr. Hido’s pain that he exchanged for his life, because he was not “moving fast enough”, we now have Ms. Llorens, who has at this point not been handcuffed properly. A pittance to pay to make it out alive that day!

After having required the keys to every door in the building, the officers quickly and fastidiously set about removing hinge-pins and even practiced their possible Hollywood Movie skills by kicking in a door – just for effect!

But soon the “clearing” began to wear thin and some of the officers “escorted” Llorens to the middle area of the buildings first floor and barked out orders in such a tone that would be heard by the SS barking out commands at jews between the slats of the cattle cars. “Which key?”
She had no choice, but to point with her nose since the keys were so similar.

This wasn’t the first time. The last time, December 23rd 2008, they seized all the files and A.J. had to put together the pieces of his business from scratch. When A.J. mentioned this ordeal to the Juice. The Juice denied even being present. Even though, all the while, the office manager recognized at least half of the officers that were then present from the previous raid.

Juice Jacobson wasn’t quite finished. When one watches video footage of after the Juice, Steve Jacobson, “escorts” the office manager into the accounting office, they see quite clearly that sexual harassment and misconduct is rampant throughout the Sheriff Department as well as the District Attorneys office. Not that a multitude of simultaneous lawsuits filed by employees of the County, further victimized by stalkings, hate mail and legal persecution after being forced to leave and being systematically blacklisted, would have ever given you that idea.

He leans over her, for a long, long, long extended period of time. I still have not been able to bring myself to ask what it must have been like to “feel his drool”.

It was fortunate that the cameras were not disconnected. Not that this would have been legal, but neither was disconnecting the phones, which they thought were the cameras. Though responsibility for the disconnection was never admitted to by any officer, at least one officer verified that the phone system had in fact been disconnected.

And the front of the business looked like a military police action was taking place. Which, in actuality it was. The officers took orgasmic delight in brandishing their military weaponry for all the traffic on Yosemite Boulevard to see.

Huddled together like a colony of monkeys in a rain forest, they would intermittently gather together in groups, each taking their due time of the limelight – “Look ma! I’m on a raid!”

Why is crime, gangs and drugs out of control? Why are our neighbors being shot right out in front of their houses, or while pushing baby strollers in the street?

Because instead of going after criminals and doing their jobs, local law enforcement in cooperation with the Stanislaus District Attorney’s office are spending OUR resources playing petty little games for power, politics and vendettas.

Sounds pretty far out?

Watch it for yourself!

Copyright 2010 by Robert W. Stanford, all rights reserved.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Inside Local Political Jokes

2010-06-29T18:10:00.000-07:00

Inside Local Political Jokes
By
Robert W. Robert Stanford

The attendance of the Med has been somewhat lessened as of late. Though Saturday morning was practically standing room only. It’s probably the 100 degree temperatures that tends to demotivate the otherwise would be patrons. Though it’s not official, we will hopefully see a lively mayoral race this coming November. I’m dropping hints as though they were Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs. Marsh has been sniffin’ around. Can’t stay away from Carmine advice. Smart man. He should have Carmine walk his precincts with him. Call it a “slow growth” campaign.

It was such a close race that I have heard many curse Rob Jackson for conceding so early in the race, though he had slept on it. Though I still have not mustered the courage to call him, I would be prepared if he called me, to emphasize the likelihood that he may still very well be our next Sheriff. In four more years.

August 20th, 2010 there will be a hearing regarding the case of Stanislaus County Et. Al VS Lydia Lopez, a single mother of two children, who did in fact, muster up the strength to fight back against corruption as she saw and felt it affect her and her family. Conveniently after the election, these papers were filed with Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors, Jim DeMartini further insinuating that perhaps our two-term, from the hip, knuckles to the floor, sociopathic and thin skinned Stanislaus County Sheriff, Adam Christianson may be showing further cause to believe that he is, in all actuality – rogue.
According to DeMartini, Rick Robinson was “surprised”. Based on this observation, the good Stanislaus County Supervisor, Jim DeMartini concluded that therefore, the other members of the Board of Supervisors were also unaware. This is rich, Monkey Man, a single mother of two being sued for nearly a million dollars. Hey, do you think we should talk about this? Quick. Someone call the SLAPP project!

At a recent liberal freak fest staged in the back of Jon’s old Café, I was presented a gift to behold which was spectacular photography of a mother bear and her cubs. The theme of conversation from the artist, of course, was just how close he got. It seemed that his own hand and spirit was steady with the situation, yet behind him, his observer was not so confident. However, congratulations still goes far out to Ken Kohler and his wonderful energy that allowed him to get so close to such a wonderful scene of the wild, which other’s would have more than likely had more than just photos to show their demonstration of the incident themselves. Fred Herman bemoaned the possible slighted future of the local American Civil Liberties Union. With Tracy Herbeck back in tow, I can tell you it won’t be me to tangle within another hall of mirrors valiantly attempted rights organization in the Central Valley. As the artist vehemently stated. “Stay away for God’s sake. What would you need that for?” Yeah. I’ll just go ahead and send my dues on up to Market Street.

The terrible twos are not faring so well in court. And lately I have had a break from hate mail. At least coming from that direction. My latest petty personal and private foe is screaming inside a paper bag on a B-52, thinking in a KeyStone Light stupor, “uh…..”. You would think that at least he would attend some of the ACLU meetings, you know, he’s down with all that “Man/Boy love” thing. Another weapon to be used against the State – a typical Central Valley Hick – John Heaton III. Blog wars are about foot, what with the UncleSam’s Boot (unclesamsboot.blogspot.com) copy and paste. The paste has special meaning. I can smell it now. Oh the memories. And yes, there is also a counter site – eyonmodesto.blogspot.com. There was another one for a very short period of time that called Heaton an outright Nazi. Not that this is an uncommon practice from what I have seen online and off. Forever my conscience haunts my dreams as I lie awake at night. The ways in which I have taunted this poor individual. I saw a group of them recently at a local StarBucks. I looked and thought for sure, easily one of these kind and beautiful soles could be Heaton himself. And then I wondered if it was my tax money that was taking this group of mentally challenged individuals on their day’s excursion. Not that I would mind – being an ultra liberal hard core progressive advocating activist, such as I would describe myself, that would of course where I would like to see the money spent. I just thought it was something I could hang over Heaton’s head – that he was you know, retarded and all, and it was me that was having to foot the bill. Maybe if I put it to him in the right way, he will have a coke and a smile and shut the f*** up. But then where would I get my little trickle of traffic then?

Ever hear of Zorch, the magazine? If not, I encourage you to stop by the local A&W Root Beer drive in for a bit of Modestocana and a free copy of a Zorch tome. You will be glad you did. And remember, Kid Guitar is now officially in the Zorch hall of fame along with George Lucas. Maybe we could get Heaton in the Turlock Hall of Fame. What would we do, name a tree after him, like we did my organ teacher, Mary Ellen Neal? Her son committed suicide at such a young age. He probably had a lot of problems. Maybe she would have understood what Heaton’s problems are. But whatever solutions could be found, Heaton would have to practice them three times a day without fail.

Food and culture of the Morning Mayor, Voice of Modesto jockey girl of Shrew Review debut cameo fame is currently out of town. That means that I have had to change up the running story at the Med from one which was originally written by a drug addict and possible child molester to one of Science Fiction created by a name that is featured proudly in the Zorch hall of fame – George Lucas. And why not? I actually was his Dad’s nurse when he was incarcerated at English Oaks Geriatric Penitentiary. So now little Jenny is no longer the White Rabbit, she is now Princess Leah. I am Luke SkyWalker, AJ is that Black dude that has the cloud station, BD is Boba Fett from Salinas Lettuce fields, Lou Downs is Han Solo, Russ is Obi Wan Kanobi and Carmine is Jabba the Hutt. Trust me it works. I broke it down for her. We are still in scene 2 – right when Luke is entering Jabba’s fortress, “You serve your master well. You will be rewarded.” The salads need to be bigger.

Copyright© 2010 by Robert W. Stanford. All rights reserved.

Apocalypse of the Common Wealth Private Club

2010-06-19T16:05:00.001-07:00

Apocalypse of the Common Wealth Private Club
By
Robert Stanford

So now everything seems to be calm with a few strangler issues out there, ripe for speculation, but seemingly impenetrable to ay influences outside the current City of Modesto Mayor, Ridenour and the go along to get along, do nothing - Modesto City Council.

McClatchy Park is one of the hopeless causes of the day. An experiment as it were to circumvent possible ACLU intervention in their general treatment of the homeless, addicted, mentally ill and alcoholic that reside in the downtown area.

Like the dumpster diving ordinance, the open container in the park ordinance, and some others that have also been misused and enforced differently from what was promised by their sales pitch promotions put on by the Modesto Police Department, the La Loma Neighborhood Association and yes, even myself. Another tool in the belt of law enforcement to be used for good or ill against the impoverished that occupy many of the parks surrounding the downtown Modesto areas. This one is best called a park privatization ordinance.

The same instigators of this new park privatization ordinance also bring us via City Hall, the Common Wealth Members Only club. What better way to put lip stick on a pig and thereby beautify the City of Modesto, then to eliminate the “undesirables”?

Now there is talk of Modesto City Council member, Brad Hawn carrying the torch of Moridian of the La Loma Neighborhood Association and starting an Association of the Graceda Park and College areas of Modesto. A wise move considering that if they could get a newsletter off the ground before November, there would be one less voting base to worry about. Hence come the rumors over the privatization of Graceda park. Just as fresh and vibrant as the same rumors heard from the Moridian camp. If you listen closely, you can hear the wind between their ears howl - “At last, we have a way to get rid of these bums.”

We have two announced contenders for the upcoming Modesto mayoral race- Council members, Hawn and Marsh. Already it is easy to predict that the Vache Bee is already backing Hawn, since they have changed the stock photo they use of Marsh and have replaced it with a picture of a man that looks like he is about to plunge a steak knife through his carotid just to end the pain of being a Modestan.

A good choice for the fat, old bigot – Hawn is strong with the development community and as far as the PMZ machine is concerned, Marsh has not been turned to the dark side long enough to be quantified as of yet.

And it matters. The Bee's endorsements are the strongest, considering that the average voting age of the largest percentage of Modesto residents that will cast a ballot, easily places them, even by AARP standards, as at least on the verge of dementia, therefore, they just cut out the recommendations of the Bee and place it side by side by their ballots. That is how Modesto's fate is decided. Mostly by a whole lot of people that the DMV should take a closer look at.

But then again, even in Modesto there is the motivational factor of candidate outreach. Marsh excels at that. With the precision and fortitude of a Civil War general, in every campaign, his troops leave no stone unturned when it comes to getting out the vote and getting the voters to not only vote for him, but to lobby others to vote for him.

What about a third contender? I guess that John Michael Flint, long-time columnist for the Bee knows better now than to speculate if Carmen Sabatino is going to enter the race, since his last piece on the former mayor was the only one of a few hundred pieces that the Bee rejected from him outright.

That coupled with several unprofessional jabs at Sabatino and the withholding of several letters to the editor in support of his recent supervisory run makes association with the “Target Redux” a wee bit dangerous if you want to score points with the Bee.

But when all is said and done, you are either a sold out whore or not. So Hawn will definitely have their endorsement and Marsh will not be able to sell out fast enough to get it. Besides, he is already showing weakness over his latest land use voting dilemma. May as well have Denny Jackman enter the race, now that his Shopping Cart Princess has taken her fill of the very local politics. This time around, it will probably be Marsh that will get the endorsement from Jackman.

After the Shopping Cart Princess steps into the land of milk and honey, I am sure that Jeremiah Williams will play the game just right. At least I will have an anchor on the council the next time I read off the dozen or so new names of victims of gang violence in the Modesto Airport District.

Nor will we have to worry about the stray whiskey bottles or having to stay late helping Steph sop up the vomit left at the center of the dais..

Copyright 2010 Robert W. Stanford, all rights reserved.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Get You The Address Here? I Would Rather Watch You Die.

2010-05-17T20:17:00.000-07:00

Except for the few slightest excursions into foreign lands and the frequent samplings (against my will) of Stanislaus Hmong and Mexicano cuisines, my diet had consisted of nothing but the highest in hedonistic fats, sugars, etc. for at least the last 35 years.

For the last three decades, my smoking consisted of various pipes, tobaccos, cigars, cigarettes (KOOLS for 10 of those years), marijuana, hashish and angel dust a time or two, some various solvents and some occasions of foregoing dust protectors in a variety of environments. Though offered at least once, I never was able to bring myself to actually smoke grasshopper legs, though I did try bananadine as well as datura leaves mixed with crushed seeds.

Of the past decade, my exercise regiment consisted of walking for outreach purposes and neighborhood watch patrols, yet my heart rate stayed rather sedentary during all these activities. There were times that my heart rate escalated due to fear or high emotion resulting from adrenaline rushes caused by finding some of the things I was looking for and witnessing some of the things I was not, but these times were scarce and certainly not daily, much less consistent.

These three things culminated gradually to a point that eventually, I was having trouble completing my patrols. And that became much worse to the point that I was having trouble walking up to a quarter of a mile in distance.

I would begin sweating for what appeared to be no reason at all. My feet constantly fell asleep after having been motionless for no more than a mere few minutes. I thought that I was progressively developing a case of diabetes perhaps.

Walking down the street one day, the next thing I knew, I was being driven to the emergency room by an elderly couple I had no recollection of meeting before that said I had collapsed upon the sidewalk in full view from their home.

At the hospital, everything was going to be just fine. Until they saw the readout from my EKG. Then things were different. I had no choice; I felt I had no other choice than to leave the hospital and make insurance arrangements to have my medical condition dealt with, whatever it was discovered to be.

Having not been one to take anything other than several million milligrams of Vicoden over the past two decades to treat police brutality/redneck violence pain, I had seldom had occasion to visit a doctor concerning my own welfare besides routine HIV tests and “just to be sure” tetanus shots. So this was new to me, in a way. For so many others, including my own family, I had suffered the challenges of medical insurance applications and paperwork. However, for some reason, this was a bit more difficult when it was time to take care of myself.

Within a few weeks I was able to establish a relationship with a “family doctor” to receive a referral to a “cardiologist”. The good doctor summarized the event of my fainting spell quite quickly, “Heart attack. The cardiologist needs to perform a stress test and echo. Then they will know how much damage has been done. Whatever you do, don’t get your heart rate up.”

By the time I was able to get in to see the cardiologist, merely getting to their office was a challenge all in itself.

After the paperwork and vitals were taken, I was able to meet who was to be my cardiologist. The first thing she said was posed as a question, “could you make it all the way to your car right now if you got up and ran?”

“No, I really don’t think so. I would be hard-pressed just to walk that far right now.”

I was scheduled for an angioplasty approximately six weeks away and prescribed a small bottle of nitroglycerin tablets and given terse instructions once again that whatever I would do, I was absolutely NOT to allow my heart rate to rise.

Not more than a couple of days later, I was on a short walk and happened to be passing by a Starbucks, when suddenly, I felt an intense stabbing pain – two actually. One in my shoulder and arm and another in my chest coupled with overwhelming pressure. Pressure that would give me pause to look down and be sure there was not something or someone literally pushing something into my chest.

I entered the café, profusely sweating and finding it difficult to get enough air as I sat down in a chair that was approximate to the front doors, beside a gentleman that I had met several times over the past few years by the name of, “Morris”.

It was during the very first meeting I had with this individual that I could tell something was not quite “on the up and up”, as it were. He said that he worked with a local television station that primarily broadcast Assyrian programming, but that it also had a complete lineup of local programming. He offered me public service announcement (PSA) time slots for some of the issues that I was dealing with at the time (infant death, breast and cervical cancer preventions). However, when it came to the final decision on which day to meet to commence these, I was to bring a down payment and pay so much per PSA for the time slots. When I informed him that this was not going to be feasible to pay for the PSA’s, it was as though I had not mentioned that at all and he merely insisted that I show up at the station with a down payment. A closer’s technique I suppose.

The several times that I had seen him since then (he would not claim association with me when I would see him as an early morning meal-guest at the Modesto Gospel Mission – probably did not want to be mistaken as one of my “clients”), it was always pretty much the same. He had the Assyrian television slots for sale as well as always something new – scams such as the currently popular video phone pyramid scheme or petitioning for signatures for money without any regard or concrete knowledge of the issues that would even make the solicitation of the signatures the least bit ethical.

As I sat there, he was spilling over legal size petition papers, asking me, “Are you petitioning?”

“No.”, I said, pulling out my little jar of nitroglycerin tablets.

“How do you make money, then?”, he asked, as though my previous denial was uncalled for.

“I make websites and I’m working on a few books and articles for some freedom mags right now.” I said, pulling my phone from it’s holster. “Look,” I said to him, “If I pass out, please call 911 for me. I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“So you’re not going to petition or you are?” he demanded to know.

“I’m having a heart attack”, I said, the best that I could muster, “please. Could you go and ask them what the address is here? I have to call an ambulance.”

“What would they need the address for?”

“Please. Could you get me the address here?”

“Get it yourself.” he said, waving his hand as though my request was so much rubbish.

After a brief transfer, I was speaking with a much friendlier voice. The 911 operator immediately asked for the address, and failing to be able to provide such to her, she asked if there was someone there close by that could help me find it out.

“Yes, there is, but he refuses.” I replied without the ability to demonstrate exasperation in my manner or tone. Weakness was overtaking me, as the moments seemed to trample by. So much so, that I was finding it ever increasingly difficult to even speak.

The only thing on my mind was hoping that I would be able to somehow save my own life. Like a hasty deal made with God, I thought to myself, “If only I can get some paramedics fast enough, I would go back to the hospital and stay this time.”

The emergency personnel arrived in droves. Firing questions at me, I did the best I could to verbally comply as they took scissors to my favorite shirt and cut it to shreds, while at the same time taking off my hiking boots, all for the purposes of pasting EKG probes in several places on my chest, shoulders and legs.

Two baby aspirin and a sampling of their nitro was a mere prelude to being helped up and onto a sophisticated futuristic gurney with an oxygen mask taut on my face. With increasing pain and faintness, their answers were taking an undue amount of effort to try and keep up with.

This visit to the emergency room was different than the one before. Though the attending physician thought I had recently been through there before, I did not recognize him from the last time, not more than a month before.

I still had the clearly written name of my cardiologist on my palm from repeatedly tracing over it the past couple of days before, in an attempt to remember the pronunciation of her name. Yet it came in handy when I was asked if I had a cardiologist.

In what seemed to be no more than an hour, I was visited by a doctor from my cardiologist’s office that performed the heart procedures there at the hospital I was being admitted to.

Immediately there was a connection. This was elegantly initiated by him as through the course of very brief introductory conversation he said that as a United States citizen, having originally emigrated from Pakistan, he felt severely put out that he had to submit his fingerprints and other things that other emigrants that had become citizens of the United States, were not required to do. “Political.” He called it.

“So your only sins are smoking and civil activism?” he said, with a gentle voice that seemed to relieve the pressure and pain somewhat.

“Yes,” I replied, “that and a really bad diet!”

He went on to explain to me that the very next day I was to undergo an angioplasty procedure and that if they found blockage that they would insert stints (metal tubes, basically) to eliminate the impedance of blood flow through my heart. Or, if it was so determined, I would need to have open heart surgery.

Fortunately, I was able to get by with the insertion of two stints and did not need at that particular time to undergo open-heart surgery.

I was prescribed a virtual laundry list of medications and put on severe restrictions and sent home.

That was nearly three weeks ago now, and my recovery has been quoted by doctors as “miraculous”. I still have a lot of weight to lose and a lot of learning to do concerning diet and calorie vs. calorie burning ratios, but all in all, I am extremely fortunate to be alive right now, and if I continue to follow my new-found path, I can possibly live a very healthy and long life.

The facing of my own mortality has given me cause to clearly see those things that are most important to me. And one of those things is to have at least one more conversation with that Morris character before I die.
So, if you happen to know who I am talking about and run into him, please let him know that I am resolutely looking for this individual and it would save him much embarrassment, agony, grief and emotional pain caused by sheer guilt if he were to never run into me again.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Letter sent to DA and Judge RE Needle Giveaway

2010-05-13T12:53:00.000-07:00

Birgit Fladager
District Attorney
832 12th Street
Modesto, CA 95354

District Attorney Fladager,

In regards to the two defendants that are currently being tried for the distribution of hypodermic needles in Mono Park as well as door to door deliveries, I read with interest the Modesto Bee article’s spin on this that distort the actual facts of the case.

As I am sure you also did.

http://www.modbee.com/local/story/906733.html

From your quotes in the Modesto Bee, it sounded as though you do, in fact, believe that this was a one for one needle exchange operation by the defendants. Though not saying this, it was certainly implied by the Modesto Bee.

Both myself and Vito Chesia of the Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors District 2 can attest that this is in fact not the case.

http://www.co.stanislaus.ca.us/board/bosbios/district2.shtm

Though, as you may or may not be aware, I am a proponent of one for one needle exchange, as was recommended by the Stanislaus County Civil Grand Jury.

http://www.modbee.com/local/story/347269.html

However, in this particular case, the similarities that exist between this unregulated and unlawful operation that did not have any support from the Stanislaus County Health Department, The District Attorney’s Office, nor the Stanislaus County Sheriff Department and other local law enforcement agencies and other organizations dedicated to the suspension of drug use amongst our population are far and few in between.

In the needle exchange program recommendation, the procedure would have been performed in a clinic or other type of accommodating office space. Not in an area central to the Modesto Airport District aptly named, “Heroin Park.”

In the needle exchange program that was recommended by the Civil Grand Jury, there may or may not have been included, the component of a “shooting gallery”. If there was, a sterile environment would have been set up so that individuals would be able to inject themselves with drugs under trained supervision.

Not left to wander off to another part of “Heroin Park” and shoot up with no observation of possible overdose or other unforeseeable problems.

The recommended program would have been a one for one exchange and strictly enforced, that without the “shooting gallery” component, no needles would be provided without the return of others and only one for one.

Not giving 20 needles at a time with NOTHING in return, with the only restriction being that of limiting the 20 syringes to 20 per day. I would think you have proof of that, but I could provide testimony instead if you do not.

In the recommended program, proof of age would have been required and minors would not be permitted on the premises at any time. Parents and possibly even law enforcement may have even been notified if their children attempted to engage in the program in ANY way. Though this might have become controversial amongst some of the groups that may be very enraged at what I am writing about today, this was the intended initial project.

In the recommended program, “cookers” (spoons and other devices used to prep heroin for injection) would not be distributed.

The only intervention by any program staff would be counseling to encourage suspension of drug use (drug rehabilitation) and clean needles.

NEVER would these needles be distributed outside of one for one needle transactions. Cotton, alcohol, etc. as well, but under no circumstances would program staff assist in any way with the preparation of drugs for use or their administration beyond supervision of possible overdose or other unforeseeable events that might surface during the actual of injecting substances. If there was in fact a “shooting gallery” component to the recommended program.

I first became aware of this “Heroin Park Needle Giveaway” by a google alert that I have set for “Modesto Aiport District”. Every time there is an entry in the google search engine with this specific word combination, I receive an email notification letting me know, with a link to same.

http://www.indybay.org/newsitems/2009/03/18/18578868.php

It was initially an event entry in the anti-establisment oriented collective website – Indybay.org.

http://www.indybay.org

Within that original posting were all of the details which I have covered above - presented as a bi-monthly event.

I had mistaken the name of the park as Oregon, rather than Mono and alerted both Chief Roy Wasden of the Modesto Police Department and Sheriff Adam Christianson of the Stanislaus Sheriff Department with a copy of the upcoming event notice including the direct link.

I then contacted Adam Ashton, the City Hall Beat Reporter for the Modesto Bee at that time.

Unfortunately, since I had read the name wrong of the park that was mentioned on the flyer, I had provided Mr. Ashton with the wrong name of the park. A reporter and a photographer were dispatched by the Modesto Bee, but were unable to find the illicit operation because they had been dispatched to the wrong park.

Not being contacted by Sheriff Adam Christianson or anyone else from the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department, since I had relayed the information of the illicit operation, I attempted to retrieve the attention and cooperation of the Stanislaus Board Of Supervisors Chair – Jim DeMartini.

http://www.stancounty.com/board/bosbios/district5.shtm

I was reduced to waiting for him outside of the first floor men’s bathroom so that I could hand him a copy of a flyer that I had confiscated from a Max Transit bus stop in the Modesto Airport District.

It turned out that we were both on our way to the Modesto Chamber of Commerce Candidate Workshop. Along the way, I attempted to draw his attention to the atrocity that was being perpetrated, but rather than acknowledging the seriousness of the illicit operation or the liabilities it posed because it was being conducted on un-annexed Stanislaus County land, he instead repeatedly defended his position in the rejection of the one for one needle exchange that had been recommended by the Stanislaus County Civil Grand Jury.

Since I could see that there was to be no action upon my discreet and personal complaint to Jim DeMartini, the chair of the Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors and also since I was reasonably certain that due to some derogatory statements Sheriff Adam Christianson and myself had publicly made about each other, at the time, I felt that the best choice of action at that point was to publicly appear before the Stanislaus Board of Supervisors and make my case during the public comment period.

This then went on for a matter of months.

This was the third or fourth time I had addressed the board with this issue.

http://www.co.stanislaus.ca.us/bos/video/04-14-2009.htm

In the meantime, from my work in the Modesto Airport District with several individuals that participated as victims of this illicit operation as well as others that were affected by this illicit operation, as well as witnessing this elicit operation, I became aware of some of the following:

· Approximately 800 to 1,000 hypodermic needles were fed to the surrounding communities throughout Modesto. Not just through Modesto Airport District’s Mono Park, but also through door to door distribution in perpetrated for the last month by the male defendant as well as sporadic events such as a Modesto Junior College Health Fair as well as another event that was well advertised and attended called, “The Peoples’ Bailout”.

· Not only were needles distributed by the current defendants as well as other perpetrators, but homeless or soon to be homeless individuals and families were illegally given legal advice and encouraged to take up residence in abandoned foreclosed home.

· By individuals actually taking this advice and acting on it, this of course exacerbated the number of home fires of foreclosed homes throughout the city and county as a direct result of candles and other crude implements being utilized as a solitary source of light and/or heat.

At the time of this event there was another example of the Modesto Bee underreporting the ramifications caused by the proposals publicly prepared by these defendants and their anti-establishment terrorist organization – ModAnarcho.

http://www.modestoanarcho.org/2009/09/modesto-anarcho-valleys-insurrectionary.html

The Modesto Bee painted the city of Modesto code enforcement as intrusive, however, wouldn’t you say that providing legal advice without a license as well as promoting the commitment of crimes that eventually lead to its own share of thousands of dollars in damage to these homes to be inappropriate?

· Typically, when an individual received 20 hypodermic needles, they would use one for their own use and then sell or trade for money/drugs, the other 19 within the confines of the parameter that defines the Modesto Airport District and far beyond as well.

· The now defunct, Modesto Airport Neighbors United building for practically the entire time (approximately 3 months) advertised prominently on the front of it’s building – F**K SAFE – (whatever that means). Accompanied by the image of an actual injection

At this time, the sole revenue of the Modesto Airport Neighbors United was derived from Prop 10 – Tobacco Tax. As somewhat of a “Parent Resource Center”.

I found it vexing that Lynn Le-Bow would not react in any way to my numerous request to remove the advertisement and instead defended it, allowing new parents, those in recovery and many others from the Airport District community that happened to visit their facility during the time of this ordeal to witness this as an endorsement by the organization. Much like the Modesto Bee does now!

My full contact information is readily available on the internet. I would think that it would be worthwhile for you to consider that I might be able to provide expert testimony to show what crimes have really been committed and the resulting casualties of those crimes. I would think that Stanislaus County would at least owe us that much for allowing this operation to progress to the point that it did.

Sincerely,

Robert Stanford
PO Box 576684
Modesto, CA 95357
(209) 496-2363
Robert@Stanford4Modesto.Com

Ho Hum. Another Illustrious Day At The Med

2010-05-04T20:18:00.000-07:00

I awake in the morning to an alarm clock that has gone awry. Not of my own keeping, but of another’s. You know the type. The kind of guy that is so adamant about actually having a job in the States, he will rise and get ready for a job he already knows he is not going to that day. His phone has dropped into the cushions of a couch and there does not seem to be any hope in site of retrieving it once more unless one were to dismantle the entire upholstered apparatus. The wireless predicament feeds into my routine, however, because it is generally quite early in the morning that I am granted enough time to get ready to start my day at a restaurant that one would be hard pressed not to imagine to be one of classic Chicago back-street Italian Wise Guy like in nature and custom.

I saunter in, still trying to wake up from an apnea filled slumber, having forgone the sometimes multiple offers of various instant coffees of the Modesto Airport District cupboards, for the sake of a Malone Brother’s blend that awaits me with processed imitation sugar and some diner capped creamer – both of which, when used in this combinational concoction, allows me to proudly drink three cups before I finally feel the least bit settled into the Sun Dial Restaurant chair of old, always this proverbial hemlock will eliminate a multitude of other dietary choices I would otherwise be a slave to throughout the rest of the day, only leaving me wondering to myself, “could this be the chair Ray Simon sat in?”

Often, I already have a McClatchy’s Modesto Bee version of the daily crossword halfway perused, but have recently been reduced to ditching this undersized, Sacramento printed tedium in favor of the same puzzle plus another from the New York Times, conveniently printed in readable size within the back page confines of the San Francisco Chronicle’s daily Datebook section. Every day I become twice the failure I would have been otherwise if only I had remained faithful to the pathetic soy-based economy sized single puzzle offering of the McClatchy’s red headed step child, The Modesto Bee.

I have my favorite seat, which I have ended up having to nervously take with caution, depending on the current level of patronage at the time of my arrival. However, if I am fortunate enough, I get to maintain the seat and be entertained by middle-aged and elderly friends. Many with names that locals would not only recognize, but envy. And in these few precious moments, they are only mine. Who needs a Del Rio Golf membership when you have all of old Modesto laughing at your disjointed and sardonic jokes?

One in particular, a hard-core conservative comes in often and orders a breakfast with each individual item carefully instructed as to its culinary preparation. A daily lesson in coupling the promotion of empathy with an ideological Judeo-Christian’s judgmental regime of thought. The art of finding points of agreement within generalized statements, all the while inserting statements that often refer to generational family conditioning as a primary cause of an unknown, yet fully labeled individuals capacity to fall from grace like a fractured barnacle being blasted from the under hull of a battle ship. Like the cross word puzzles I work feverishly in futile toil, this too seems to be an exercise in experience and mind expansion that begins every day with the massaging of a conscious focus of energy directed at the bottom line of my ridiculous crusade – The promotion of understanding and empathy regarding the consideration of equality among all peoples throughout the world. Lofty goal. Have to break it down into its smaller components – daily crossword puzzles and sociological theocratic breakfast talk.

I catch the eyes of the cooks, one by one. Speaking in Spanish soliloquies, the mundane is brought to light as a safe place to be for the time being – i.e. Another day another dollar.

As I work my crosswords with predictable devastation of any confidence I may had built up since the previous morning’s attempt, the rotation of visitors commences as I listen to the politically charged conversations ultimately leading to speculations of the future as though I were surrounded by a multitude of bookies haggling over point spreads.

Throwing out my caveats wherever I may find their convenient placement – “Yeah, and then Ridenour spent $2,500.00 from his re-election campaign on the committee that supported Measure M for his big fat raise! And that was AFTER the election!” It keeps my respectable position at the table and sometimes, if I am favored, one has the power to launch a conversation with my quip as the topic. It’s better than getting printed in the McClatchy’s Modesto Bee. And besides, your only critics are respectable enough to differentiate the aspects they agree with and do not, rather than blowing out a huge orange burst of fire at you from across the table with an economy jumbo sized can of Brut aerosol deodorant and a disposable Bic lighter.

The menu has all but lost it’s luster for me, since the Carmenalized Lord of all things pasta thought he could keep me around longer by restricting my choices to only the salad bar. I have therefore been left to my own devices and now only order chef salads with extra bleu cheese. Of course shortly after having decreed this loving restriction, it turned out that the Lord was correct, though his diagnosis was off. His scheme still worked all the same, and now I am a mad hatter of diet as well as social graces among the regulars of his domain. “Change Places!”

There is a certain waitress that he has hired, specifically to act the role of White Rabbit. Always shouting out of context, “I’m late! I’m late!” pulling an I-phone from the pocket of her waist coat, she hops about the establishment carrying on three and sometimes 20 to 30 conversations at one time. Incredible. She is invaluable to me. From being an accurate barometer regarding the daily mood of our centerpiece restaurateur to a complete roster of who had been through the restaurant during the hours from 6:00 AM to the point that I had arrived, as well as a host of other information that I would be able to get in no other way. She catalogues information and learns of procedures within mere minutes. The same things that took me months and at times even years to understand, she assimilates entirely before the two discarded olives of my chef salad plate are hurled through the air by the wave of my fork, inevitably irritating random customers throughout the further dining area, with a coffee splash from within their own coffee cups and the occasional Mimosa cocktail addition. Seldom are complaints made about this, but when they are, I am turned to, as though I were a child returned to a drugstore to confess to a shoplifting crime and faced with Carmenalized eyes as I am told to never do that again. That’s what garbage cans are for. There is one over there and over there and over there. And there is one over there.

And of course there is another waitress that is terrified of me ever since I whispered Spanish in her ear. Though I was only asking for some butter for my bread, I believe I mistakenly threatened her and her family with some sort of sacrificial ritual performed in the bathroom of a Kids R Us bathroom stall. I really only meant to ask for butter. Must be a different dialect I guess. It still works out good for me, because when I order my chef salad out of season (during times that it is not on the menu), she gets it for me any way, saying, “I guess it is because you are special”. Shaking so badly, I thought at first she had palsy. But no, it’s me. Me and my pigeon Espanol. I only wanted some butter. I guess the words “sangri del su familia” was never intended to allude to one’s first choice of buttering crudely torn apart slices (wads generally) of sourdough, thereby eliminating even more tough dietary choices throughout the day and acting even further as some sort of a deal with the Devil, as it were. Like a medical student that is forever changing any conversational subject to one of sleep, so too, I change any conversational topic to unhealthy food and ritualistic sacrifice in uncomfortable places.

Much too soon things about the establishment begin to radically change. The nine o’clock hour approaches and with it comes an ever so subtle breeze that can be felt as a prelude to an ominous hurricane.

If one were to realign their gaze, while searching the back of the establishment, high and low, before they reached the latter in their search for the appropriate restroom, they would see a large, red neon glowing sign flashing in the coldest of blue, tubular letters in deco format – ON AIR IN 10 MIN. –

I have tried to touch the elusive object many times, perplexed so extremely that I would have to admit to the beginnings of belief that truly, it does not appear at any other time than exactly 10 minutes before and approximately 10 minutes after the Morning Mayor Show on Blog Talk Radio, with your host – Carmen Sabatino. It appears as though it is nothing more than a hologram, broadcasted from the former mayor’s house perhaps? And these are just some of the preponderances one is faced with after going for a prolonged period without skimming through the pages of Radio Shack and Sharper Image catalogues. My oh my. The things they can do these days.

I have tried to discuss this phenomena with the other staff, however, be it the lighting or my recent countenance as of late, their answers to my questions have more to do with flat out denials of knowing anything about it, to my questions being answered by other questions pertaining to my health, whether I have eaten that day or a waving of their fingers before my face, twisting their own face and making sarcastic cooing sounds.

Glancing up from the table before me, in one fell swoop of thrashing my pen across the remains of a crossword that invariably always seems to look like it had been given for a lobotomy patient to solve as some sort of a cruel joke, I take notice of the waitress torn between holding down a steady job or running in fear of the lives of herself, her family and God knows who else I may have inadvertently threatened with ritualistic sacrifice before I learned to ask for butter appropriately in her native tongue.

As though she was staring into the abyss of the Tree of Life itself, the words, “El Diablo” are plainly written all over her face, as she involuntarily demonstrates the only thought she is allowed to have for that moment in which we make actual eye contact. With 8 minutes left to go on the holographic neon countdown flasher lamp, she immediately reorganizes all of her tables into a format within her mind that would rival the best RISK player in the world and then immediately commences visitation for all of them like a worker bee, collecting nectar and pollinating the flora, all the while in between sputtering Santa Rita incantations, never daring to make eye contact with me again until the very next day.

Like the ON AIR holographic contraption located between the restrooms, there is another that appears when the counter drops to 5 MINUTES. A rectangular box that has a spectrum of lights from bright yellow to burgundy red that light up in direct accordance to the sound level made by the resentful cooks, just beyond the pasta hot plate catwalk area under the heating lamps. From within our own borders, the chatter that is heard from the kitchen suddenly makes the pre-911 World Trade Center bombing seem like Romper Room. The light is constantly bright red. I have actually never seen it light up on another color in the amount of time that the contraption appears- five minutes after the ON AIR hologram contraption.

Sometimes, the White Rabbit will toy with the kitchen staff. Often submitting customer’s orders as Elven riddles. They will in turn take extra care and time with their timeless delivery, but by that point, every order turns into a virtual food fight of words that the customers never taste nor notice. Yet one can always rest assured that they will never be served a meal that bears any likeness to saints. They are inspected with trained and eager eyes. There is a special bus cart for these dishes. Lately, the dish and bus staff have been considering acquiring another, due to the one used now being stacked beyond capacity. Carmine just orders more plates and never mentions the bizarre kitchen obsession with finding the images of Catholic saints in any menu items served. The White Rabbit may not be culturally aware that this is even transpiring and when the eventual meal is finally served, sometimes after several replacements, she just comps the meal. I suppose it is the least she can do, since one could remain quite certain that most people that dine here have the Enquire Magazine tip line programmed in their phone where 911 use to be. I know at least, that I do. But they only want to see the Mother Mary. Every time I try to get near the cart to look for one, the cooks drop everything they are doing and surround me, telling me how tired I look and that I should sit down. And all in selective Spanish. They don’t want to say the wrong thing to me in English!

The White Rabbit starts turning on both balls of her feet at the same time and with the grace of a ballerina, she suddenly and abruptly begins wrapping up several conversations while making phone calls, taking orders, reading the paper, drinking coffee, eating essence of oatmeal, and completely ignoring the cries of terror emanating directly at her from the waitress chanting Santa Rita prayers and pouring coffee as though she were gunning for my role as The Mad Hatter. “Change Places!”

Suddenly everyone glances at everyone else – with an upward tilt of the head of one of the subversive cooks, I know he felt it too. Another Modesto rolling earthquake? No. It’s Emerson Drake coming through the door. Staring for a moment at the holographic neon countdown contraption, he takes an innocent looking box and stands at the last table, as though he were about to open a box of dueling pistols. Taking one of the objects from the box, he examines it’s fit in his hand and one can plainly decipher his muttered words: “I’ll give them that one.” Like a gunfighter preparing for OK corral, he carefully lays the objects about the table as though he were Opie, setting Aunt Bee’s table, while simultaneously hiding his fear of damaging by jelly spills, the red criss-cross table cloth, all the while he bravely dons the bravado of a penguin narrowly missed by an orca’s jaws.

For many months we were unaware of the actual root of this fear which haunts this investigative reporter for the Voice of Modesto and co-anchor of the Morning Mayor Show. We had thought it could be easily attributed to his post World War One shell-shocked type behavior being caused by the sheer multitudes of people who had stopped him on his way into, what had now been completely transformed into a full fledged radio station studio. People who constantly stop him on the street and say – “Hey, your that Byron guy, huh? Yeah...didn’t you write a book or something? Oh yeah, Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Modesto Irrigation District Corruption But Was Too Afraid To Ask. Formerly titled, The Fleecing of Paradise Valley.”

In constant flowing motion, the air of the surrounding environment, as governed by the holographic ON AIR contraption is thick with newsworthiness. As crucial as the very moments after the Hindenburg and the first discoveries of Liddy’s Watergate fiasco, so are we caught up in the daily miracle of news. Just as easily dismissed as a wisp of smoke like the War of the Worlds broadcast. But certainly not by the powers that be. They hang on every word. We can see their grimaces on the tickertapes of the internet as they tune in and absorb the alternative news source. News slanted the way the public wants. Their way.

Tune in weekday mornings between 9am and 11am. The Morning Mayor Show

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Gays, Lesbians and You - One and the Same

2010-03-27T12:31:00.000-07:00

Gays, Lesbians and You – One and the Same
By
Robert Stanford

During my tour of the Modesto City Council District 4 precincts, I happened upon a friend I had first met at my church. It was on one of the hottest days and as I stood with her, on the porch, with the ice water she had gotten for me, we surveyed the houses that we could see while she told me not just the residential history of those, but others further beyond ones we could see.

For my part, I felt that our bonds were by coincidental design. By our energies which either were borne of our quests to promote understanding and empathy or defend those that would suffer because of a lack of that understanding by others. Particularly regarding the acceptance of gays and lesbians as human beings, rather than the perverted and sinful demons our central Californian valley has always seemed to have quantified them as.

So often within our conversations, patterns are quickly weaved as we trade quips, stories and preponderances which all seem to inevitably come to similar points as though we are castaways on an island hoping to be rescued. Or two people that share a knowledge that so few others have.

We seem to fulfill a common want or need by reassuring each other that those who despise gay and lesbian liberties are merely on a path – that their hate is nothing more than an involuntarily learned behavior. Hoping that we are in fact correct, all the while, knowing fully well that they are not so correct when they make similar assumptions regarding my friend’s sexuality.

Both in years and actual experience, she is far more versed in this school of thought than I. However, the discussions we have, I believe to be rare for even her. Our meetings have always been opportunities for us to reaffirm our beliefs to each other that hate and discrimination of gays and lesbians is nothing more than a shell, behind which, unconditional love and acceptance is waiting in the cold hearted darkness.

The story she gave to me on this particular day was not terribly different than all the other things we have shared during our brief encounters together. It had all of the same elements, but there was a deep-seated personal pain for her involved with its telling.

As though one could actually see the beads of liquid bleed through a drinking glass by way of condensation, I could clearly see the moisture bleeding into her eyes as she began her short tale.

She had lost her wife some time ago, yet shortly after, found herself in conversation with what was perhaps a “country” type gentleman. She confided in this man that she had recently lost her wife of many years.

To which the gentleman replied, “I know just how you feel. I lost my best mule just last year.”

It was ever so apparent to me that her story was painful to share, because my gaze into her eyes turned me into a seer of her memory’s history. An historical memory filled with her late wife. The joys, regrets, tragedies and so many moments taken for granted by both of them.

I was touched deeply by my friend through all this effort and pain that she momentarily went through, only to assure me that there does in fact, exist beyond the shell of homophobic loathing, a special place in the hearts of most people where they are growing and trying to understand – especially when there is someone of significance before them, asking them to.

That she may have found comfort in this man’s attempt to relieve her grief at that time the best that he could, says something hopeful and special about those who would equate the concept of gay marriage to the ridiculousness of eloping with one’s own dog.

The preponderance of these things help us grow as well, so that we do not also paint with such a huge brush and condemn those that would care to have something to say about whom we all, as individuals, should rightly fall in love with and marry.

Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe I read too much into our first conversation when she referred to herself as “queer”. A statement that took me back many years to gay rights demonstrations in San Francisco, which I had attended as a teenager. So many signs proclaiming proudly those very labels one would at first think to be hateful– “faggots”, “fairies” and “dykes”. Used as an insistence of existence. An insistence of acceptance. Or at the very least, equal rights under the law.

For one to now say that homosexuality is a sin is the same as one who would say the earth was flat.

The preservation of the sanctity of marriage is dependant upon its recognition for everyone. Not just for those who don’t have the intestinal fortitude to find their way out of their own closets.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Percentages of Interest

2010-03-09T16:51:00.000-08:00

Percentages of Interest
By
Robert Stanford

Much of what I write is written for a specific audience. A reader that I hold in my mind as I write. Someone that I am speaking with. A generalization of a certain percentage of the people that will read the article that I create.

Seemingly going through phases, a certain percentage of these percentages go through my mind as I prepare to write and write on whatever topic I deem is so important to communicate to a certain percentage of the percentages of people that will read it at all.

A certain percentage of everyone that reads the title will read further.

A certain percentage will read the first paragraph and another certain percentage will read the first two, and so on.

Of the total number of people that will initially read the title, further percentages are assured. Such as a certain percentage of people that despise me, know me, follow my work, are investigating me for whatever reason, had been looking for another Robert Stanford, either a WWII pilot or a multi-million dollar con artist, or even perhaps a UK based Real Estate Firm. Or simply found it by accident most random, it could not possibly be called a coincidence.

Some of these percentages I am aware of and of course, some I am not.

A certain percentage are law enforcement, social service personnel, elected officials, activists, and some are just people that find my writing intriguing, interesting, or utterly ridiculous and fun to read.

Of the total number or people that will initially read the title, there may be applied a very crude scale that could demonstrate in generalized terms, the amount that people are aware of who I am and what it is exactly that I do. From wherever people fall on this scale, say a scale of 0 to 100, is from where my image in these people’s minds are formed as though the gauge was at 100, no matter what approximate area of the gauge is an accurate representation of each individuals knowledge of who/what I am.

Some of these percentages fall into specific categories in which I can speak with a select demographic – and only to them. Often this does tend to infuriate other audiences I have addressed before, yet their confusion becomes quite evident when my writing to them is basically nothing more than seemingly contrived far side one-liners strung together and broken up in paragraphs in sometimes some rather odd places. My run on sentences suddenly become an irritant to them, when before, when they read what I had specifically written for their percentage category, they were not. The piece you are reading now, however, is intended for a much broader audience. So it will not be as funny.

And beyond the target audience, of course, falls other percentage categories of people that read the entire article.

This contemplation of interest and the percentages of the whole that are involved in some way, and the way that they may be categorized can be applied to many things that plague our very lives and quality of life itself.

For instance, if we were to take the entire population of drug addicts who reside as citizens of the County of Stanislaus (at least 30 days of some type of residence in the county). From this group, several categories can be identified as so probable it would be easy to arrive at a general consensus that they were in fact, facts.

Such as a certain percentage would be able to successfully overcome their addiction if they were in an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) program. A percentage would overcome their addiction if they had a sponsor in the program. Further percentages of this selected population could be broken down by success factors, such as the dedication of the sponsor and the branch meetings of the program itself.

To actually act upon concepts such as targeting and identifying sections of the population as a whole to recruit into these types of programs would warrant a study and speculation of interest and percentages. An identification of their categories, such as a poll to determine the difficulty of convincing the general populace that this is an effective approach to lessening the levels of drug use in their community – decrease demand and you decrease supply.

It’s the law of prohibition. A legal state of affairs that affects every single drug addict residing in the United States today. Percentages of severity could be applied through consideration and practice, which would show, most definitely a pattern of the suffering caused by a specific stigma American society places upon drug addicts as individuals as well as a generalized population – particularly during their consideration of assisting them with their illnesses of drug addiction. So much so that interest in their percentages and corresponding categories are, as a rule, taboo discussions in many communities, including Stanislaus County.

Such a large percentage of the community that comprises Stanislaus County are so quick to be cold and judgmental in consideration of the stereotypical image they hold in their mind when they consider the drug addict as an individual. It becomes for them an immediate representation that speaks to them on behalf of all drug addicts that comprise the entire drug addict population. Such a broad stroke they make. And for the greatest percentage of the people that make this stroke, this mental brush leaves in its wake the outline of absent responsibility. A responsibility that was long ago abandoned and is continually abandoned throughout the life of this drug addict individual – the assumption that their grip on reality and enjoyment of freedom of choice is just as strong as that of the individual that has created this spokesperson image.

Stigma takes over and drug addicts become their own hated race. The greatest percentage of any drug addict population is constantly faced with their cries for help falling on deaf ears. Banished they are. As if they had forsaken their own souls, they are left to their own devices and every mistake they make under the shadow and fog of their drug affliction becomes a crime because it is assumed that the line that divides right and wrong is just as clear for them as it is for those that are free from addiction.

Certainly that would apply to a certain percentage of the drug addict population. But not to all of them. And of those, why do we as a society find ourselves to be so apathetic, insensitive and lazy that we allow these people that can be healed of this disease to suffer so?

Perhaps it is because we do not realize that they exist and we allow our mental image of the drug addict spokesperson to cause by its sole image, for us to bask in the warm glow of yielding to apathy – a human tendency to wither back when faced with adversities or their very consideration. A comforting sense that all we can ever possibly do is shrug, roll our eyes and shake our heads, safe within the comfort zone of “knowing” that every drug addict has the freedom to choose and that they choose to be the mental image we have created to appease ourselves.

It is what has prompted me to point out and illustrate why would someone choose to wake up in the gutter with a needle sticking out of their arm? Interest and percentages. What percentage of the drug addict population choose to actually do just that?

At what point do we dispense with the technicalities of chain-linked events resulting from a decision that was under the duress of drug inducement and look upon these individuals as though they were inflicted by a disease rather than bad morals? Would it perhaps be at the same point that we accept responsibility for our fellow citizens with a healthy respect rather than fear and disgust? Or does it go deeper than that?

Are we perhaps afraid that we as non-addicted individuals could suffer the same fate as the mental image we have painted? Are the defining features of this image a result of our subconscious knowing that it may have in fact only been a matter of lots in life that could have lead to ourselves being represented by this image?

An image borne of stigma. The stigma of a horrible disease that in most cases can be cured. One of the few diseases in the world that can be cured by a neighbor’s love. At least a certain and definite percentage.

Interest and percentages conveniently forgotten by us all through our own design. The design of an image to hold in our minds as irrefutable proof that by cowering in fear and recoiling from the true drug problem, we do not have to fear becoming a part of it, though most certainly, it would be of no real fault of our own.

How can it be so much easier to lash out and condemn those that we fear to become?

Because when we look at them, we are truly looking at ourselves. Therefore, through no choice of our own, we already are – them.

And as drugs continue to destroy the very fabric of our society, at what point will we realize that we do not have to resign ourselves to the oblivion that drug abuse is pushing us toward – we need nothing more than community supported programs and warm extended hands that are outstretched to our neighboring Stanislaus County citizens, despite whatever mental image we have painted to protect ourselves from them.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

People of Stanislaus County VS Mono Park II – Needless Needles

2010-03-08T11:44:00.001-08:00

People of Stanislaus County VS Mono Park II – Needless Needles
By
Robert Stanford

The Modesto Bee has failed to report the facts in the case regarding the two defendants that are being charged with misdemeanor health and safety code violations for the distribution of hypodermic needles in Modesto Airport District’s Mono Park, dubbed, I believe, by themselves – the Mono Park Two.

Please allow me to spell out some points that have not been reported by the Modesto Bee in a seemingly slanted attempt to make the male defendant appear to be something he most certainly is not:

1. Anyone of any age without any information recorded or transferred could obtain 20 syringes and paraphernalia to prepare their injections.

2. Hypodermic needles were freely provided to minors.

3. There were more individuals than just the two defendants involved.

4. They were not “unwitting revolutionaries”. I had warned them from the beginning that I was going to make sure that they were charged legally and incarcerated if necessary.

5. The activities were not limited to Mono Park. They were conducted door to door and at other “revolutionary” events. There was also a needle distribution operation conducted on the East Campus of Modesto Junior College during a Modesto Junior College sponsored event (but of course, Modesto Junior College denies this).

6. Needles that were distributed freely to addicts in Mono park and elsewhere were resold so that meth and heroine could be and was purchased using the money that was derived of selling the needles to other addicts (thereby even more needles become shared). Some of this money fueled the Norteno gangs that have their own jurisdiction and “rule” over the Modesto Airport District and other nearby areas in Modesto.

Though I have written on this subject previously, and all the articles that I have produced regarding this case, up to this point can be found on the internet, I was recently approached by the attorney representing the male defendant, Ruben Villalobos, who said he wanted to give me a “heads up”, that I might be called to testify on his client’s behalf.

Perhaps he thinks that he may be able to expose me as something that his client has made claims of and therefore, provide some sort of an idea to the jury that his client should never have been charged in the first place, since it was for reasons that had nothing to do with civic duty or community welfare that I came to make his client become charged in the first place. I could not help but think to myself, “wow, what an idiot.”

I have had a lengthy conversation with the female defendant and arrived at different conclusions than I had before, in that, I do not believe that her culpability in this matter is as intense and destructive as that of the male defendant’s. She reminds me more of a cult follower. It does not seem that the male defendant gave her the disclosure that she deserved, such as informing her that I had warned him and the Modarchano organization that I was going to cause their arrest and incarceration as well if necessary to bring a halt to the elicit needle distribution operations that they were conducting.

I further believe that the male defendant may have done the same that himself and other members of his organization, Modarchano had done with homeless individuals by giving legal advice that was not correct, thereby costing the “working class” thousands if not millions of dollars worth of property damage by convincing people that it was legal to take up lodging in abandoned and foreclosed homes relying on “alternative utilities” such as candles and steno cans, thereby causing many fires, particularly in the Modesto Airport District.

The female defendant’s assessment of my knowledge I believe to not only be influenced, but partial, since, for one thing, I do know that until this writing, neither of the defendants are aware that I actually did the same thing myself before either one of them were born. But of course it was orchestrated with far more responsibility than their program and was before HIV/AIDS was an issue in the United States. It was also in the Haight/Ashbury District of San Francisco and managed by the Haight/Ashbury Free Clinic. An MD was present at all times. But that was 30 years ago. The attention to accountability and the methods coupled with having a medical doctor present trumped legality in the eyes of local government and the SFPD (San Francisco Police Department).

It was not a “needle exchange” however. Just like the program conducted in Mono Park, it was a “needle distribution”. Today, I do not know if would have participated. It would depend on the current state of the population of intravenous drug users in that area and at that time. If memory serves me correctly, the primary reason for distributing needles at that time without the emphasis of collecting, as in an actual “needle exchange”, was for the necessity of preventing infections and Hepatitis – Hepatitis primarily through sharing and infections caused by erosion of the needles or contamination with undesirable substances in the intravenous drug user’s environment(s).

The culture of the streets in the Haight/Ashbury District was one that had a measurable amount of accountability between the addicts to a certain extent. One in which we would know if our project was being abused to the point of not being effective. I.E. the resale of distributed needles exacerbating the propensity of infections by more shared needles. That was not the problem that I was concerned with and believed to be happening in the case of the Mono Park “needle distribution”. Primarily because the amount of needles that we were distributing in the Haight were one or two. Not twenty.

In 2008, the Stanislaus County Civil Grand Jury recommended one for one needle exchange to the Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors. In lieu of the ultimate vote on this issue, I had the following letter published in the Modesto Bee:

“I applaud the Stanislaus County Grand Jury for their recommendation of a needle exchange program in our community as a means of stemming the tide of infectious disease throughout our entire community.

Not only does needle exchange programs reduce the spread of blood-borne illnesses such as HIV and Hepatitis C, it also offers a consistent opportunity to provide information and encouragement to intravenous drug users regarding treatment and counseling as well as addressing other health issues arising from high-risk behavioral lifestyles.

With the overwhelming failure of Proposition 36, drug addiction treatments available to drug users and/or offenders are underutilized except by those offenders fortunate enough to be ordered to drug court.

With no accountability to continue, the offender is given little more than a sheet of paper in terms of support and alternatives to their current lifestyle.

Proposition 36 drug offenders are left to their own devices to deal with their drug addiction by themselves.

Needle exchange is in no way condoning intravenous drug use. It is an effective approach to saving lives by reducing not only the rates of deadly disease, but also promoting education for drug users regarding existing opportunities available to them for treatment.”

Robert Stanford
Advocate, Modesto Airport District

I first became aware of the Needle distribution operation according to internet postings announcing the event as well as flyers that advertised it throughout downtown Modesto, the La Loma neighborhood and through the outskirts of the Modesto Airport District.

The most disturbing was a flyer that used the “F” word prominently in its title accompanying an image that demonstrated an actual injection that was displayed on the front of the now defunct Airport Neighbors United building. For all intents and purposes, this was a grant – funded parent resource center. Despite my several pleas, the proprietors refused to remove the material. Allowing their primary demographic of visitors which were Parents and children to see the posting in plain sight.

The flyer spelled out the program. That there would be an opportunity every two weeks for any individual to receive 20 syringes with no questions asked. In addition, paraphernalia for the means to prepare their injections would also be provided as well as information.

I was to find out from members of the Modesto Parks and Recreation department that there had, previously to the onset of this program in Modesto Airport District’s Mono park, been a needle distribution program conducted at an event that was called, “The People’s Bailout”. This event was put on by a group of individuals that have called themselves “Modarchano”. A group that distributes literature and plasters flyers throughout Modesto touting anarchistic ideals such as the destruction of Government, the elimination of law enforcement, as well as lawlessness itself as a type of “people’s revolution”. At this same event, legal advice was given by the male defendant in this case and other individuals that were also involved with the elicit needle distribution operation, but not charged, encouraged those that were homeless to “squat” in foreclosed homes. This was their primary solution to homelessness. The fallout of this action resulted in several houses being burned to the ground due to the use of candles by the trespassers.

I had reported the Mono Park needle distribution program to then Chief Wasden of the Modesto Police Department as well as Stanislaus County Sheriff, Adam Christianson. Mono Park was served by the jurisdiction of the county of Stanislaus since it resided within an un-annexed area of the Modesto Airport District.

A short time previously, I had suffered a deprivation of my first amendment rights under the color of law from Stanislaus County Sheriff Adam Christianson, when I had asked about a specific agenda item in regards to the expenditure of a quarter of a million dollars to purchase out-fitted horse trailers. Specifically I was instructed to not speak to the Board about matters regarding the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department without discussing the matter with Stanislaus County Sheriff, Adam Christianson, personally himself.

Also, at this same time, Sheriff Adam Christianson saw to it that the customer service Sheriff Deputy that was assigned to the Modesto Airport substation was removed altogether from the Modesto Airport District, so I was unable to achieve assistance from him in this matter either.

So basically where I stood, I was unable to acquire assistance to shut down the operation from the Modesto Police Department because it was not in their jurisdiction and I was unable to acquire assistance from the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department because Stanislaus County Sheriff Adam Christianson was allowing the operation to continue, apparently in some effort to show me the power that he held over me and my neighborhood, the Modesto Airport District.

I contacted the Modesto Bee to appear at the first session that was being conducted at Mono Park, but unfortunately, failed to give the correct name of the park and therefore, though the Modesto Bee sent staff out to cover it, they could not find anything, because I had not given them the correct name of the park.

I then began appearing before the Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors requesting that they encourage the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department to act.

I broached the subject at first by approaching Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors’ Chair, Jim DeMartini. So quickly was I dismissed by this man, that I ended up having to wait outside of the men’s bathroom in the City Hall building, to give him a flyer of the event that was the same as the flyer that I was unable to get removed from the Modesto Airport Neighbors United building. After walking from 1010 10th Street to the Modesto Chamber of Commerce offices to attend an event that we were both attending, the best that I could get from him was to accept the flyer and mutter, “needle exchanges don’t work”.

Over the course of approximately three months, I made numerous appearances before the Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors without any progress toward shutting down the elicit distribution operation. Primarily because the Sheriff of Stanislaus County only answers to the Stanislaus County Board of Supervisors regarding his budget. A lesson that was hard-learned, after Christianson took out his vindictive hatred toward me on my own charges – junkies.

Throughout the middle of the time span that the elicit needle distribution operation was conducted, I had been in contact with Modesto Bee’s Tim Moran. He indicated that he had called Stanislaus County Sheriff, Adam Christianson directly and that the first thing he said to Moran, was that he had only heard of the needle distribution from Linda Taylor, a blogger on the Modesto Bee’s blog forum that professes to be an “anti-drug activist”, but seems to be more like a “drug war monger”.

Apparently, Tim Moran laughed a bit and said that was not what he asked, and that it was incidental where Christianson was getting his information from. Stanislaus County Sheriff, Adam Christianson’s reaction to Moran seemed to be enough to push Moran to accept the Modesto Bee buyout package the following day.

During the time of the elicit needle distribution program, I witnessed for myself some of the fallout that resulted from the elicit operation. For the majority of the people that used the services provided by the Modarchano counter-cultural and anti-authorative group,

The addicts would certainly take 20 needles, use one (over and over again, sharing that needle) and sell the rest on the street as “outfits”. They would easily make enough money very quickly to purchase more black tar heroin as supplied through the Modesto Airport District/South Modesto by Norteno Gangs, thereby increasing the pressure applied to the stranglehold that this gang faction has upon the Modesto Airport District, No Man’s Land and the surrounding neighborhoods of South Modesto and Ceres.

In consideration of the numbers of syringes that were being distributed, overall my best estimations are now between 4 to 6 thousand needles distributed between events that were sporadically setup in addition to the Mono Park site as well as Modesto Junior College and door to door services provided by the male defendant. I highly suspect that there were more and probably still are ongoing needle distribution operations now by other members of the Modarchano organization.

Seven heroin addicts that I had been following (some for many years) that were taking advantage of the Modarchano needle distribution operation relapsed during this time. They may have relapsed anyway as all of these individuals were basically homeless and enjoyed little if any support from the community besides myself to stay clean to begin with.

After having observed the operation unseen from a distance, I decided to make my presence known and to sit several yards away from the actual distribution that was taking place in Modesto Airport District’s Mono Park.

Shortly after my arrival to the park, I was joined by Stanislaus County Supervisor Vito Chiesa. Both of us at this time were able to witness the appearance of the distribution of needles to minors.

It was April 18th 2009, that the needle distribution operation conducted in Mono Park was finally brought to a halt by the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Lydia Lopez VS. Pooley & Stan County Etal – Monkey Business

2010-02-22T11:29:00.000-08:00

Lydia Lopez VS. Pooley & Stan County Etal – Monkey Business
By
Robert Stanford

Whenever the corruption that pervades Stanislaus County is raised in conversation, it is quickly dismissed as, “The Good Old Boys’ Network” as though there is nothing anyone can do to stop or even put a dent into the problems that face employees of Stanislaus County today.

Finally, in Lydia Lopez, we have someone with the courage to stand up for herself and many others that suffer silently beneath the suffocating oppression of harassment and discrimination in the workplace of the largest employer of Stanislaus County – Stanislaus County itself.

The sexual harassment/discrimination lawsuit continued Friday, February 19th 2010 at approximately 1:30 PM with Stanislaus County Sheriff, Adam Christianson taking the witness stand.

“Please state and spell your name for the record.”

Straddling the witness chair in side-saddle fashion, the great ape heaved his breasts toward the jury, demonstrating the alacrity of his poly-urethane face as he spoke only to them.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman. My name is Adam Christianson. C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N-S-O-N. I AM Sheriff of Stanislaus County.”

In honor of the presence of the gorilla, several of us in the audience (the right side of the isle) donned caricatures of little, joyful monkeys enjoying peeled bananas upon our lapels.

Amazing all of us throughout the courtroom, Lydia Lopez’s attorney, Jeff Hubins, immediately stepped into the necessary role of Jane Goodall. Hubins reduced his questions to their lowest common denominator – the most simplest factors, so that Adam (Monkey Man) Christianson would have an opportunity to grasp such concepts such as the under-reporting of hours worked may not necessarily constitute a “fraudulent timecard”.

The Brass Monkey testified that even though he had on his own volition written specifically that Lydia Lopez was to be transferred from the Drug Unit to another department, that he had no knowledge or reason for having such knowledge of the transfer. And just as immediately, he snatched up the credit, as thought it were a fresh banana and said that the reason he, himself had recommended the transfer was so that Lydia Lopez would be able to “feed her children”.

The jury looked as though they were embarrassed for the chimp’s audacity and bad lying, as several of them immediately grabbed the nape of their own necks, averting their gaze to something other than the plump baboon presenting to them a professionalized persona while playing an all too obvious ruse.

Although Hubins, dealing with the gorilla through his Jane Goodall role, asked a variety of questions, it was apparent that the heaving beast could not differentiate the differences between any of the attorney’s various questions as he preceded each and every one of his answers in the same way, no matter what the question was.

“Like I have already said.”

“Like I told you before.”

In response to a yes or no question, the gorilla broached a lengthy explanatory diatribe of how the incorrect addition of two double digit numbers would constitute a “mathematical error.” To which, several in the courtroom could not help but chuckle at the antics of the funny Monkey and his overly confident demander. So much so, in fact, that a few member of the jury hurriedly rifled through their tote bags in hopes of finding bananas or peanuts to feed the funny Monkey.

At several points throughout his testimony, the gorilla forewent common Stanislaus County court procedure, by addressing Judge Hurl Johnson as merely, “Judge” rather than the appropriately traditional address of, “your honor”.

Like an animal locked in a cage, Christianson was a “hostile witness” for Hubins. The gorilla’s tendency was never to face Hubins directly when answering, but rather, the jury. To which, the gorilla’s tone was pedantic and disrespectful of the actual court process. Like a wink and nod that Lydia Lopez and her action was nothing more than a scam. But since the gorilla had been foraging for upcoming election votes, he had foregone presence or attention to the trail proceedings and by his own admission, the entire matter altogether. He walked print for print within the same footsteps of the defense council. A grasping of straws that backfired by rather than decrementing the credibility of Lydia Lopez’s clams, only provided further validation that she was in actuality a victim of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department as a whole. Left to suffer by a non-progressive county in which it is perfectly acceptable to label one of it’s non-sworn employees as a “filthy little slut”, but it is not OK to agree with the Sheriff’s admission that he is, in fact, a thousand pound gorilla.

The gorilla testified that an internal affairs investigation regarding Pooley’s molestation of Lydia Lopez was conducted outside of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department, namely by the MPD (Modesto Police Department), as though the gorilla had superceded procedure by insisting that an outside agency handle the investigation, even though it is standard practice. Standard policies also seem to be something the gorilla takes undue credit for.

Deep in the recesses of the right isle within the courtroom, we huddle in a constant exchange of information. Some of it hearsay and other parts first hand, etc. A chatter that draws the attention of a bailiff sitting directly to the right, in front of us, just beyond the abyss – the equilateral line between being a part of the proceedings and being a mere observer of them.

Inside the mist of the gorilla’s testimony, this bailiff seemed so out of place with his professionalism, warmth, kindness and unilaterally neutral support of the two sides affiliated in any way with the case. A man in a uniform that goes far beyond any expectations a Stanislaus County Citizen could possibly expect. An older gentleman, wearing the khaki traditional colored uniform, not bearing the “black shirt” style that has been impressed upon this century and a half old organization as of this past decade. The turn of the millennium. An adoption of a department evolving into something that destroys it’s own heritage. Arguably, a turn of history that seems propagated by a thirst for power that cannot be quenched and a lustful, usury seduction by the FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation).

In one of the documents that had been entered into evidence, making it an “exhibit” by the gorilla and by Sheriff Adam Christianson’s own hand, he had admonished Jackie Bernal. Although he did testify that he was not aware of any of the functional operation of the records clerk positions, he had named Jackie Bernal as the sole individual causing Lydia Lopez difficulties in the workplace, thereby contradicting not just his own testimony, but the testimonies of both Jackie Bernal herself, as well as Lydia Lopez. Quite odd, when you think back, that at one time, Jackie Bernal had confidence in Sheriff Adam Christianson that he would right some of the wrongs of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department. Faith similar to what we have now come to place upon the shoulders of Stanislaus County Sheriff Election June 2010 candidate, Robert Jackson (Action Jackson, as some of his admirers prefer to call him).

The bailiff had to finally take me aside, as he had to another one of us on another day for a different reason.

Every day that I attend the proceedings, the bailiff immediately ahs the assisted listening device ready to hand to me. It was particularly useful throughout the gorilla testimony.

At the change over to the defendants turn to question the Monkey, it was time for a little break. The gorilla found a chair and placed it next to the witness seat. But not before making a valiant attempt to take this break time into a socialite cocktail party by reaching up and shaking hands with the Judge, making sure all could see that this Monkey was a member of that “club”. Too brash. Too showy. All throughout there was nothing displayed but the dark and putrid stench of Clamper freedoms gone awry – Before us there was, in this very gorilla, the epitome of the Clamper’s sins against women smelt of over one hundred years. And in Adam Christianson, it was even the “dumbed down” version. Not that I would suspect any member of this current jury and alternates to have the same description. But I suspect more and more that they are learning proper perspective of the historical reality that comprises the traditional culture of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department. Perhaps if we were to investigate vital statistic records of Sheriff Adam Christianson, we may find that at one time, his last name was Wiedman. Little girls always want to please their daddies, don’t they? Wouldn’t the same apply in primate families? Families in which nepotism is the norm?

Of course Ms. Bernal had a rude awakening indeed, as the records department began having it’s shift assignments manipulated like Fun Run Jail duty. And possibly even more when, on the witness stand, she discovered her signature had been forged in an effort to frame up Lydia Lopez. Hopefully for the jury, therein will lie just another rub. Another twig to add to the already overly weighted faggot that Stanislaus County taxpayers must bear. A change of history is in our grasp. A change for women for generations to come. But only if the jury sees a tenth of what we know. Because in Stanislaus County, your allegiance is forced by your very life and/or livelihood. Just ask Raul DeLeon or Bob Holloway.

Upon our return, we were able to witness the change from day to night within the glimpse of a five second time span as the sensually delectable Ms. Jacob, one of the attorney’s for the defense at approximately $375.00 per your tax hour, leapt from her chair like a dark haired Labrador jumping up from the lulled afternoon’s sleep at the call of her master.

Ms. Jacob had been, for the most part, silent since the initial onset of Jackie Bernal’s deliciously contentious and revealing testimony.

And Ms. Jacob had told us all in her opening statement that she would not be smiling very much. But man, oh man, she sure smiled brightly for the Sheriff of Stanislaus County, Adam Christianson. Kind of begs one to question what Ms. Jacob and Monica Lewinsky might have in common. Meeting of the minds so to speak. So obvious. Just like the good Sheriff’s testimony in which he was gently asked if he was aware of a pay increase for Lydia Lopez due to her transfer. And sure enough. Monkey Man Jumped right through that hoop for his ego laced banana. Although he had originally testified for Mr. Hubins that he had no knowledge of the transfer, he claimed feeding Lydia Lopez’s children. Now it was, of course, the gorilla himself providing the very “survival” of Lydia Lopez and her entire family. 0 for 2. And his own team scored our point. And that would beg one to ask, at what point, for “clarification”, the gorilla is “ever” going to pay attention to these investigations of discrimination and sexual harassment. Yeah…now we are getting it. Times may very well change, but some people just don’t.

Or after nearly a dozen related lawsuits, apes are still just monkeys thinking they just might be thousand pound gorillas.

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Lydia Lopez VS. Sgt. Bill Pooley and Stanislaus County Et al. Trial – Day 2

2010-02-06T12:25:00.000-08:00

Today began Day 2 of the discrimination and harassment lawsuit pursued by Lydia Lopez, a former clerk for the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department.
Lydia Lopez returned to the witness stand, with the first part of the day being questioned by her attorney, Mr. Hubins.

Most of the session between Ms. Lopez and her attorney, Mr. Hubins was a re-clarification of the events cited which build a timeline in which Ms. Lopez’s alleged ill experiences of sexual harassment and denial of disability accommodations had transpired.

During the questioning regarding the timeline of events that brought us from December of 2004, at which time, on Christmas Eve at approximately 12:00 pm the events allegedly occurred between her and Sergeant Pooley occurred, to the present.
When she got to the point of talking about being unemployed after having voluntarily quit the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department by going AWOL (a term used for Stanislaus County employees that refers to situations in which they do not show up to work for 3 days and are considered to have voluntarily resigned), she said that she had immediately began looking for another job. She then covered her face and began crying.

Mr. Hubins, turned to Judge Johnson and asked if it would be a good time to take a break, to which Judge Johnson replied that it might be best to get through this part of the testimony, rather than just having to come back and immediately revisit it. The Judge then asked Ms. Lopez if she was OK with continuing, to which she replied that she was.

She then related that she had felt stranded, left to her own devices, going from house to house to house with family and friends “staying anywhere we could”. She talked about living for a short time in her car, with as many of her belongings as she could fit into it and her children.

After a few more clarifying questions submitted by Mr. Hubins, it was then time for the cross examination by Morin Jacob, defendant’s council.

Ms. Jacob began by going over medical excuses that Ms. Lopez had submitted from her family doctor to her employer regarding the need for her to remain on day shifts.
Repeatedly, Ms. Jacob asked if she had discussed with her doctor the problems she had finding consistent day care for her children.

She made a point of establishing that at the time of her requests to only be assigned to day shifts that she was not on a 30 to 60 day regiment of paxil or any other medication.

She then spent the rest of the day going back through two of the alleged incidents of sexual harassment, spontaneously touching on such hot-button issues, such as: her husband’s affiliation with the Norteno gang and his current incarceration.
Ms. Jacob constantly referred to a previous interview that was conducted in 2007. An IA (Internal Affairs) investigation that had been initiated by her complaint of Pooley’s alleged sexual harassment against her. She pointed out inconsistencies in the “two versions of the story”.

One of which was a reference to which hand was allegedly forced during the first incident of alleged sexual harassment. According to transcripts as read by Ms. Jacob, Ms. Lopez had said the right hand was forced, as opposed to the left hand as she had testified to on the previous day.

Ms. Jacob also contrasted the claims regarding statements that Pooley had made during his alleged advances. Also, whether she was able to feel Pooley’s genitalia or just the covering of the zipper.

It was pointed out to Ms. Lopez that Pooley had been transferred to patrol and that he no longer had a desk at the SDEA (Stanislaus Drug Enforcement Agency) on the date of the first alleged harassment incident, December 24th 2004. To which, Ms. Lopez stated, “No. I was not aware of that.”

When asked about the inconsistencies between her testimony at this trial and the transcripts of her interview during the IA investigation, Ms. Lopez replied that she had, on both occasions relayed the events that had transpired “to the best of her knowledge at the time”. She said that she had been referring to notes that she had been making on the advice of her attorney, Mr. Hubins.

According to Ms. Lopez, these notes were turned back over to her attorney, Mr. Hubins. When asked if they had been turned over to the defense, Ms. Lopez replied, “I don’t know what he gave you.”

Ms. Lopez said that she remembered more after going over these notes Mr. Hubins had told her to prepare.

Trial will resume Tuesday, February 9th 2010 at 9:30 AM

Robert Stanford
Civil Rights Activist
Modesto Airport District

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.

Lydia Lopez VS. Sgt. Bill Pooley and Stanislaus County Et al. Trial – Day 1

2010-02-05T17:37:00.000-08:00

Lydia Lopez VS. Sgt. Bill Pooley and Stanislaus County Et al. Trial – Day 1

Today, February 4, 2010 began the trial of Sergeant Bill Pooley and the County of Stanislaus on the charges of discrimination and sexual harassment levied by Lydia Lopez, a former records clerk for the Stanislaus Drug Enforcement Agency (SDEA), known to some of us formerly as the Stanislaus County Drug Enforcement Unit (SCDU – pronounced Skadoo).

The two sides made their opening statements.

First, council for the plaintiffs, Mr. Hubins presented his picture of how the trial would proceed to the jury and additional alternate jurors that were selected just yesterday. He began by apologizing for being late, blaming the traffic along the southern path of the Altamont.

Judge Hurl Johnson suggested that he need not be late again, if he were only to consider that each day there would be some sort of a problem throughout the Altamont, therefore, he should leave earlier.

With the confidence of a Buddhist priest, fresh from chants and meditations, he calmly and tactfully presented his case. A case comprised of scenarios presented as facts and indications of what the jury could expect, not just from his side of the bar, but rather from three sides: His side, The defendants’ side, as well as various witnesses whom may fall somewhere in between.

He described in vivid detail the incidences that occurred along a condensed story line that explained exactly how this case had come to be in civil court. Like an elegant puppet play of origami forms and symbols, he would cast light at various angles regarding the situations of which he spoke, pointing out coincidences that were suspicious and aspects of Ms. Lopez’s employment with the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department that appeared too suspicious to actually be the coincidences that they were portrayed as by the defendants.

Practical, sensible and without allusions, his story began from the beginning and situations, as though they were chapters of Lydia’s recent lifetime, flowed through to the end with the grace of a virtuoso reproducing a masterpiece on a keyboard.

He appealed to the intellect of the jury. His confidence arising from his obvious preparedness, it appeared he left little doubt in the minds of the jurors what the final verdict should rightly be. In a word? Amazing.

Next it was the council for the Defendants’ turn. An opportunity to present what the real case was to be. However, immediately one could see the contrast between the two opening statements. In the first – three sides were discussed : The Plaintiff, The Defendents, and the witnesses’ varying testimony that would reside somewhere in between.

However, for the second, the defendant’s case – a side and one half at best was presented. Mostly, it was comprised of innuendo, allusions and propaganda that had absolutely nothing to do with a preponderance of the evidence at hand.

Secondly, her opening statement differed because her attempts to incite immediate emotion from the jury made her case appear to be actually weak. Reminiscent of the all too typical tactics employed through the McClatchy’s Modesto Bee, by both the administration of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department and the Stanislaus County District Attorney’s office top brass, she began to lament the Sheriff’s department beginning to stray from the actual subjects Mr. Hubins had shown to us to be on the table by reiterating the hardships currently faced by the Sheriff’s Department and the county as a whole by rising crime rates, foreclosures, etc.

She unabashedly began to build her foundation of vilification of Ms. Lopez. Alluding to several accusations of criminality, yet not offering anything more than open-ended statements. It got so bad, that at one point in her statement she actually alluded to the notion that Ms. Lopez was perhaps still not divorced and that she had an ongoing relationship with her husband, an alleged Norteno gang member currently incarcerated.

Perhaps the most sickening allusion made by the attorney representing Stanislaus County and Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Sergeant Pooley, was that Lydia may have had demonstrated that she had invited the sexual advances of Pooley. But then, practically in the same breath she stated that she would be able to prove that the incidences of sexual harassment had not happened anyway. I guess she thought she could draw out a two-fer from the jury.

She was interrupted by both Mr. Hubins and Judge Hurl several times, mostly for some of the reasons that I just cited above. But that never stopped her onslaught into immediately showing her cards – dark cards. I think she said it best when she quoted Stanislaus County Undersheriff Bill Hein – “Desperate people will do desperate things in desperate times.” She actually cited this quotation as being eloquent enough to provide certain evidence of Lydia Lopez’s untrustworthiness.

A single mother having problems finding childcare and experiencing financial difficulty after a difficult divorce will steal money, arms or drugs. I don’t think it reverberated positively with the jurors. (perhaps for Lydia Lopez it did.) But this was the bottom line she cited as to why Lydia Lopez was to be moved out of the SDEA. That it certainly could not have been because there was any type of retaliation to her having had, within a few weeks of this relocation, complained of sexual harassment from Sergeant Bill Pooley. Whomever she may have complained to.

We broke for lunch then, after Judge Hurl had no choice but to put a rather abrupt stop to her roughly prepared opening statement.
We returned from lunch to find that Clifton Young, a plan check engineer for Stanislaus County had taken the witness stand, first to be questioned by the Plaintiff’s attorney, Mr. Hubins. It was explained by Mr. Young, that a plan check engineer is someone who ensures that buildings are safe enough to occupy with people. He then went on to explain the reason for him having been subpoenaed to the stand is because he is also a job steward for the Union that represents Stanislaus County employees and that he had represented Lydia Lopez.

He explained that he had assisted her during a skelly hearing which is a hearing that is conducted when an individual employed by Stanislaus County has received a notice of termination. The employee has a certain amount of time to appeal the notice. Ms. Lopez did this and to assist her in mediating with her supervisors was Mr. Young – the job steward. The position for Mr. Young is a volunteer position and he has been doing it for several years.

The incident in question was the matter of timecard falsification.

At the Voice of Modesto, we had hoped that Modesto Mayor Ridenour would be forced to testify, but Judge Hurl disallowed his appearance on the grounds that it was not terribly applicable to the case at hand. Hubins had wanted Mayor Ridenour to testify since county council had somehow been able to keep Mayor Ridenour from being deposed by Hubins regarding the Mayor’s own falsification of time cards, which Mr. Hubins said, “We have the proof.”

Another interesting note would be that the Stanislaus County Civil Grand Jury refused to pursue the matter at all regardless of a citizen’s complaint.

Hubins does not appear to believe, however, that this latest rejection of questioning Mayor Ridenour was an attempt to cover up. He wanted to bring in members of the K-9 Unit and Sheriff Radcliff as well. Hubins indicated that Judge Hurl said that it was a time waster and he wasn’t going to stand for it. Lydia Lopez did falsify her time cards or she didn’t and that is the issue – not whether it is common practice or not.

Mr. Young from the witness stand spelled it out all too clearly that it, in fact, was common practice to “bank hours”. Working through lunches or a little overtime to make up for time that you take off.

In the several years the Ms. Lopez had been employed by the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Office, not only was the practice tolerated, it was actually approved by her supervisors. Until, she began to complain about the sexual harassment of Sergeant Bill Pooley.

Mr. Young emphasized his experience as a job steward for the County of Stanislaus and referred to a change in the behavior of Ms. Lopez that he had seen in other cases in which their was harassment of some sort. Changes in behavior such as, tardiness and absenteeism.

He cited how she had taken 109 hours of paid sick leave in that year and over a hundred in the year previous. A stark contrast of her previous years with the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department where at most she would take 20 to 30. He said that this was usually an indication that “something was wrong – something had happened to cause this.”

It was also brought to light that even her own supervisors filled out their time cards incorrectly, and as long as it carried the blessing of their supervisor, through the para military organizational tree of the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department and all other departments that comprise the county, it was no harm no foul.

Most of the cases in which he acted as steward were for these types of termination notices – timecard falsification.

It seems that everyone does it and that everything is ok with it (even Mayor Ridenour does it), until you fall from grace in the eyes of your superiors, then they suddenly have something to hold over your head, to fire you, transfer you or negotiate something with you that will fulfill their needs (getting you to shut up or closed down – terminated).

As in the case of Ms. Lopez, the timecards and a bureaucratically denied medical excuse was the way in which they were able to force her schedules into graveyards and eventually rotating shifts. Enough to break her. Enough to make her finally give up. Which Ms. Lopez finally did.

Eerily similar to a previous case of four plaintiffs with similar complaints that recently settled with the County of Stanislaus at the taxpayer’s expense.

The cross examination by the Defendants’ council was pathetic and lacking any depth or further revelation that would possibly assist in stemming the tide of the growing corruptible image the jurors must be discovering when they picture Stanislaus County or Bill Pooley himself. Looking at their alert faces, I could not help but wonder if some of them resented their Stanislaus citizenship even more than before today.

“Do you have personal knowledge…..?” Yeah, that was about the best they could do.

Mr. Young admitted that he had no personal knowledge that any of the allegations that Ms. Lopez was making was true. He was not there. He did not see it. But Mr. Young did re-emphasize his experience and the repetitiveness of that experience that gave him measure to ponder whether there was a bigger issue in the workplace as opposed to no issue at all that had caused a sudden and dramatic change in Ms. Lopez’s work habits (tardiness and absenteeism) that just happened to coincide with the time of Pooley’s sexual assault against Ms. Lopez.

Throughout the questioning of details by the Defendant’s attorneys – it was never more than an attempt to desperately scatter seeds of doubt into the minds of the jurors who’s minds seemed to already be in full bloom with the realization that Stanislaus County is basically a corrupt institution. At least as far as payroll and integrity amongst the majority of its employees is concerned.

After the final break in the day, it was Lydia Lopez herself who took the stand.

Hubins began to recount her life and was hurried along a bit to the time of her first employment with the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s department and her position starting at level I as a records clerk for the SCDA.

Hubins spent the majority of the time allotted today, having Ms. Lopez verbally re-enact exactly what she is claiming happened. From describing the room – to second by second details of the incidents in question.

With undeniable strength and courage, Ms. Lopez answered all of his questions – at times she was unsure of certain details surrounding the incidents. But every feature of the actual incidents themselves were vividly recalled without any hesitation, including corrections when re-surmised by Hubins during the course of his questioning her.

Trial is to resume tomorrow February, 5th 2010 at 9:30 AM in Department 23.

Robert Stanford
Civil Rights Activist
Modesto Airport District

Copyright 2010 Robert Stanford all rights reserved.