The Current Happy Horseshit about homelessness, people living in the woods, and alleged racism.
“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.”
— Joseph Goebbels
Recently, a spate of articles has been published describing the amazing fact that there are sightings of homeless, migrant workers living on the streets and in the woods in ultra-conservative white communities like Hampton Baiys, East Quogue, Southampton Village and North Sea — in the Hamptons. Relax Elitists!
The claim, which has been spread by the Grey Lady and Newsday, that there is some sort of Economic Racism afoot especially in the Town of Southampton near Town Hall or in Westhampton Beach Villege where truth is doled out impartially, is misleading. How could people who clean toilets and landscape by day wind up in the woods at night because the Southampton Housing Authority panders only to local residents or their kids instead of Blacks and workers — which they have been accused of for the last few decades?
After all, they are only sitting on $2 Billion dollars, collected from Liberals and Conservatives alike in order to reward political favors. A slush fund almost as big as Jared Kushner’s.
Landlords who have rented NEW housing to homeless workers have been prosecuted and imprisoned for less! Believe me, I know. I spent four years in prison for providing Affordable Housing to people who now have tents, like Mr. Cruz and his family, according to Newsday. Alas, and alack, the Town of Southampton’s Town Board tells us that there are 50 units ON THE DRAWING BOARDS. They fucked me for this 15 years ago! So, what’s the rush?
The now imprisoned, D.A. Thomas Spota, worked hand in hand with the Southampton Town Supervisor dating back to the early aughts when Patrck “Skip” Heaney introduced a rental law that was a thinly disguised eviction plan. The Code Enforcement Police were the Brown Shirts who stll operate with impunity and who told those “undesirables” to not pay rent. Which thereby put landlords out of business and also evntually evicted immigrants once the banks stepped in.
The Town Investigator, who moved this along, and instigated illegal raids on the poor workers and landlords now runs the local Republican Party in Southampton. A former cop, no less.
So don’t expect a solution from Maria Moore, who recently raced from Westhampton Beach to Southmpton Town Hall, folks.
In keeping with this rosy view of Freedom of Speech, below is an outtake from my wonderful four years in prison at the wrong end of a Vindictive Prosecution — my reward for solving the Southampton Affordable Housing crisis — only temporarily. After the Town destroyed me financially the UNDESIRABLES were sent back to live in the woods.
Note: According to Newsday (April 23, 2024) the Southampton Supervisor and the Town Board have delayed the current vote on a 50 unit Affordable Housing plan which has been planned forever. But, she pointed out “It’s really not about the population for me. We have a bad situation in terms of traffic at this particular location, so let’s not add to it.”
Fuck ’em boys. Leave ’em in the woods. We don’t want to upset the traffic flow.
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Here’s a scene from my memorable four years. This was as a member of the ASAT drug treatment program which I volunteered to take for 6 months.
“What matters most in life is how well you walk through the fire.”
– Charles Bukowski
February 27th, 2015
This was my prison anniversary. Locked up for three years.
I started the celebration at the hot pot talking with an inmate named Pinckney,
The overnight C.O., an annoying guy who popped a handful of chewing tobacco into his mouth every morning at precisely 6:10, after a night of sleeping in the bubble and giving out at least one ticket from having snuck up on some guy in the bathroom who was smoking. One of the inmates had complained that he got up to piss and walked into the bright white bathroom lights with at least 5 guys standing around smoking. Naturally, I believed him. Why shouldn’t I since I fought my way along the walkway during the day, convinced that I was going to die from second-hand smoke OUTSIDE. There was no escaping the lunacy of these guys. Drugs were GOOD for you by comparison. It was the smoking that was going to kill them. That plus the food.
“That was quite a performance,” I said to Pinckney as he was preparing his food at 5:45 at the microwave. “You really got to Roddy with that,” I said. I was referring to one of the women running the ASAT drug program. An alcoholic who enjoyed having inmates make fools of themselves.
“Think so?” he said, smiling.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “she was practically in tears. I think you went a long way towards repairing your relationship with her on that one.”
“I hope so.”
“Listen,” I said, “we have that basketball game later today. Why don’t you join me in a routine at the game?”
“Okay,” he said, “I’m in.”
Every Friday at the end of the month, ASAT played a basketball game. The two segments, meaning the morning group and the afternoon group, played against each other.
The guys joined one or the other team, depending upon which segment they were in. The rest of the guys sat in the bleachers. Except for the Cheerleaders.
Naturally, I wound up being one of the Cheerleaders. How else could I completely make a fool of myself. And, Hernandez HAD been a willing Cheerleader. Until he passed his final review and didn’t really have to do anything else. He was done. And, he really was DONE. he had no interest in Qigong, Cheerleading, or anything else that he didn’t have to do to get through all of this. He was going home in a couple of weeks.
I’d spent the most of the last couple of days fretting about having to check my blood pressure — which itself was giving me high blood pressure. I had to get to Commissary with my measly $23.94 for food since my wife had been juggling finances and we were having trouble, and she had trouble sending me 50 bucks. And, I had to go to Infirmary to pick up my medication. I was being torn in several different directions — worrying about getting tickets, getting meds, getting food, having no money, worrying about finances at home and now I had to worry about being a 72 year old Cheerleader to make Roddy’s day. The man-hating elements of her personality were not well submerged. Unfortunately, I was feeling the full force of it.
So we all went to the Gym.
I had thought of a routine that emulated the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. Kick, drop, kick, drop, swing left, drop, kick, swing right. I figured that if it looked sufficiently ridiculous, stupid and emasculating, it would have to be a hit with Roddy. But, who to have play it with me?
“That’s too gay for me,” laughed Cuba, “I don’ think so,” he said with his Tony Montana dance and smirk.
“Hernandez,” I said, “you wanna do a dance routine with me for cheerleading today at the game?”
“Pardonne,” he said, pretending to not understanding my English.
“You want to cheerlead with me today?”
“Oh, no,” he shook his head, “I finish. I don’ theen so.”
“Too bad,” I said.
We got to the Gym, changed from our boots to sneakers and arrived on the floor of the basketball court. The entire Gym was reserved for the ASAT guys. And, as soon as we got there, the two teams started throwing baskets. The rest of the 60-odd guys planted themselves in the bleachers to watch. Why I had gotten myself roped into this role was beyond me. Although, I realized that the whole bag of shit was about getting through ASAT with as good a recommendation as possible for Parole. So, here I was, about to make an idiot of myself. Again. For good reason: getting released.
So, I looked for Roddy.
The fun began and there was very little real interest in this game. It’s only real allure was that there was no ASAT class for today and they could just sit around and Roddy could sit in her cushioned chair across the court and assess the game and our behavior. I treated it as an opportunity to make myself look foolish, in order to augment my position in the program.
The game began and it consisted of the guys playing basketball and running up and down the court. Little noise, no cheering, zero interest. And, for the first half of the game, my section was trailing. And, at halftime I saw Cuba over talking to Roddy and another woman whom I did not know. A few minutes later, Cuba came back over and said, “Roddy says there’s no cheering goin’ on.”
My first reaction was, “Well go fuck yourself you fat fuck.”
I thought that might have been a mistake. So, I said, “Did she send you over here to tell me that?”
“No, I jes heard her sayin’ it.”
“I’m waiting til the second half. I have to pace myself.” I said.
“Whateva, bro’ I’m jes lettin you know.”
The second half started and I grabbed Pinckney.
“Listen, we talked about this. Roddy’s watching. Now’s the time to do a couple of things to get her attention. It doesn’t matter what we do as long as we make fools out of ourselves, that’s what Recovery is about here in prison.”
He looked at me, confused for a second.
Here was this 50 year old drug dealer, gray beard about 6 inches long surrounding his face who was going to be going back to selling crack, coke, heroin as soon as he got out, and I was giving him advice. NOT about how to do business, but how to improve his chances of getting through this program and OUT of prison. By being a Cheerleader.
Now, I’d seen the Christmas show when the first run of White Christmas came to Rockefeller Center, at Radio City Music Hall when I was a kid. The star was Bing Crosby and it was a gala show, replete with families, men dressed in suits and fedoras in those days, and kids towing behind in little outfits, obeying their parents. I lined up to get in because I was with my favorite aunt from New Jersey. She was my father’s sister and her husband Jack was with us as well. They were both avid Christian Scientists and occasionally fought like cats and dogs. But, she was domineering and he was her supplicant despite the fact that he’d had part of his stomach shot out in the first World War and then went on to become an undercover Pinkerton. He was a tough Scot and had a pronounced Scottish accent.
So they took me to see the Christmas Show at Radio City Music Hall and I was introduced to the stage show at 8 years of age, featuring the Rockettes.
Little did I know then, more than 50 years later, that I would be emulating those girls.
I’d seen drag queens since then, but it wasn’t quite the same thing. The girls would line up, place their arms on each others shoulders and kick.
Kick to the right, kick to the left, bounce and skip and with the beat from the orchestra.
“Pinckney,” I said, “this is what we have to do. The two of us will join arms and kick, first to the left, down, then kick to the right, and we keep doing it. Soon as the second half starts we begin after doing some loud cheerleading. Ready?”
He laughed. “Yeah, what’rewegonna cheer?”
“Doesn’t matter what we cheer. This is about looking like idiots in front of Roddy. This is going to clear up your problems with her. Guaranteed.”
“Okay, so whatta we say inna cheer?”
“We’re in Mod 2, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, how about ‘Mod 2, Mod 2, Rah, Rah, Rah. Then, Mod 2, Mod 2, Sis Boom Bah?”
“That’s good, That’s good. Mod 2, Mod 2, Rah, Rah, Rah, Mod 2, Mod 2, Sis Boom Bah.
Right?”
“That’s it, you got it.”
So, Pinckney, the Pakistani/Indian/Irish drug dealer with a 75 I.Q. who was all psyched about showing off his stuff first starts doing the knee moves from the Charleston, and wiggling his ass while he moves his palms from left to right on his knees while he’s bent down to simulate the dance move. And, as the game started again I said to him, “Okay, let’s start over.”
I tapped Pinckney on the shoulder and we turned around and started yelling, “MOD 2, MOD 2, RAH, RAH, RAH,” and I’m waving my arms looking like Mick Jagger with his lips pursed and pointing my palms with index finger stuck up in the air and wiggling my body like a hooker.
“MOD 2, MOD 2, SIS BOOM BAH,” I continued as Pinckney joined in with me and then I motioned to him to start our dance routine.
We put our arms on each other’s shoulders and I say “GO,” and we both start doing kicks, to the left, stop, to the right, stop, and, again, to the left, stop, to the right, stop, and on an on, and on, kicking high in the air in unison.
The guys in the bleachers were going wild and there was cheering and laughing and pointing at us, the two oldest guys in ASAT.
I’m a 72 year old white guy, never committed a real crime but was convicted for housing immigrants in the Town of Southampton.
Here was the face of a drug program — Recovery.
And, here we were, performing like Ru Paul’s crossdressers without the dress, without the music, and with a basketball game going on behind us — in prison.
As the yelling and screaming and laughing reached a crescendo, I turned to look to make sure that Roddy was watching.
I knew she was. Because, she’d stood briefly to emulate our dance steps and listened to the cheering going on as Pinckney and I continued our RuPaul Rockettes steps.
As the cheering died down, we turned and started screaming at the players, egging them on and yelling and whistling for them to sink baskets.
Finally, after the din died down, things slowed a bit and the game came to an end.
We’d won the game.
I didn’t even know who our team was. But I knew I was Recovering.
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