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Thread: FCDC circa 1970

  1. #6511

    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    Quote Originally Posted by Winston Smith View Post
    OK here is winnie's latest: (for an audition for an excellent chamber music thingy in June)

    https://soundcloud.com/oldvlc2/shostakovich-qt-14-cello
    ​Why my goodienesses, sounds like a real cello. Yeah, that's definitely not a fake cello. And you need a page turner.

  2. #6512
    Flunked Scientology Winston Smith's Avatar
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    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    Quote Originally Posted by Mystic View Post
    ​Why my goodienesses, sounds like a real cello. Yeah, that's definitely not a fake cello. And you need a page turner.
    Ha, I enjoy making a racket turning pages. You are lucky I don't moan when I play. I should talk more, but I find it does not pick up my voice very well, unless I have it right up to my face. Or yell. And mild mannered Winnie does not yell.
    "Happy Happy Happy." --Phil Robertson

    "You cannot be a musician without a song in your heart." --Leonard Bernstein

    "What we have here is 'Failure to Communicate.'" --Strother Martin

    "Some times nuthin' is a real cool hand." --Paul Newman

  3. #6513

    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    Quote Originally Posted by Winston Smith View Post
    Ha, I enjoy making a racket turning pages. You are lucky I don't moan when I play. I should talk more, but I find it does not pick up my voice very well, unless I have it right up to my face. Or yell. And mild mannered Winnie does not yell.

    Well, you could make a rock-star note with your voice, often can be akin to a yell. Get another mic and mix 'em.


  4. #6514

    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    I hereby declare the FCDC thread DEAD.

  5. #6515

    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    Quote Originally Posted by Mystic View Post
    I hereby declare the FCDC thread DEAD.
    Until the dead rise again

    The object in life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane -- Marcus Aurelius

  6. #6516

    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    Quote Originally Posted by Enthetan View Post
    Until the dead rise again


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  8. #6517
    Flunked Scientology Winston Smith's Avatar
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    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    Hey you can't kill off Nozzie! He is still alive and well in Florida! Do I have to start posting titties again?

    Note: I liked the above due to the fine piano performance. I might sully it up with a cello performance, let me look for something appropriate. But as I won't let this thread die, I will come back to haunt it.


    Some Bach:

    https://soundcloud.com/oldvlc2/zoom0005-mp3
    Last edited by Winston Smith; 20th March 2014 at 04:48 AM.
    "Happy Happy Happy." --Phil Robertson

    "You cannot be a musician without a song in your heart." --Leonard Bernstein

    "What we have here is 'Failure to Communicate.'" --Strother Martin

    "Some times nuthin' is a real cool hand." --Paul Newman

  9. Thanks Commander Birdsong says "thank you" for this post
  10. #6518
    Crusader Commander Birdsong's Avatar
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    Default Re: FCDC circa 1970

    Quote Originally Posted by Winston Smith View Post
    Hey you can't kill off Nozzie! He is still alive and well in Florida! Do I have to start posting titties again?

    Note: I liked the above due to the fine piano performance. I might sully it up with a cello performance, let me look for something appropriate. But as I won't let this thread die, I will come back to haunt it.


    Some Bach:

    https://soundcloud.com/oldvlc2/zoom0005-mp3
    yeah...

    titties!
    I didn't drink the KoolAid but I sure did drink the wine
    I wasn't on the spot but I sure did walk the line
    You know I saw her coming but I didn't hear her go
    'Cuz she said goodbye to me years before she said hello


    http://cmdrbirdsong.org

    http://churchofamericanscience.org/

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  12. #6519
    Crusader Commander Birdsong's Avatar
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    Default Re: Dueling with lightsabers

    Quote Originally Posted by Commander Birdsong View Post
    TAS, you are the only one who rhapsodizes as I do over the FCDC we knew. "I was a Jedi before Jedi was cool" really struck me as I had already used that imagery in a piece I was writing for my COAS site.

    But an excerpt is going in here. It begins with what was to have been the first chapter of a book started in 2007.


    *****
    Chp 1
    BANG.

    He didn't drop but the page he held did, just like a divebomber, straight down, spinning, it flattened out and pinwheeled on a thin cushion of air across the floor toward the door like a felon fleein' and out, not stopping until it smacked with a bright small timpany against the railing above the stairwell. His weight was on his left foot when the bullet struck his right thigh and he wheeled left, clutched the end of the table steadied himself, glared at me in shock and hate. I raised the muzzle of the Raven to the ceiling and swept my eyes to the Qual Sec's desk in the far corner to my right.

    “Freeze”, I said to the room.

    “Sit”, I said to him.

    He pulled out the nearby chair with his left hand, slowly rested half his rump on it gingerly extending his wounded limb, braced himself with his right arm on the plain stained-wood surface and glowered at me through a grimace.

    “I don't know who you are, jerk, but I ain't takin that crap”, I said calmly.

    I could hear the DTS scampering up the hall from his office at the far end. He pulled up at the doorway.

    “Stand back, Chuck”. Chuck Judge was a good man. He looked at me and turned his eyes to The Wiz. Bobby shot him a look that pinned him and turned to me as I turned to him.

    “Drop the gun”, he snapped.

    I dropped it. Ninety degrees so it's muzzle crosshaired his nose.

    “I'll give it to the cops”, I said. “Sydney, go call the police, Roger! Block the door.”

    Sydney was sitting at her desk by the door and Roger had already risen from his seat in The Examiner's Room and was standing on it's threshold. They both looked at The Qual Sec. He looked at me and my little friend, seethed a second, looked back to them and nodded. Sydney rose and scampered out and Roger stepped smartly to the door. I raised the gun. Shoes were banging up the stairs.

    “HCO! Bring order!”

    Cooper's voice. He clattered up the hall.

    Stop Donny”, said Roger. “He wants the police.”

    “We're the police here”, barked Cooper. He pushed Judge aside and pressed against Roger scowling into the room, flamethrower eyes blazing at me.

    “I want the thin blue line Donny.”And tipped the piece ten degrees toward him. He didn't need to move his lips to tell me he wanted a chunk of my hindquarters.

    Christ! This could get ugly. Don Cooper was a black belt martial arts instructor and an OT. A tall mesomorph and fearless, he was barely constrained from an assault. Two steps into the room and airborne across two tables and he'd be on me. His contempt for the gun I held was virtually audible but I didn't blink. My face was still but inside I was grinning, and I think he could feel it. I had prepared correctly for such a moment and it gave me an ironic upper hand in the face off. The small .25 calibre pistol had held one chambered round whose casing was on the floor and an empty magazine. I was holding a Quaker cannon and knew better than he firepower posed him no threat. I raised my hand back to the vertical. He was true to the form. Almost imperceptibly his tension diminished.

    “The police are on the way. You're the OES. Clear our guests a path.” I said.

    His lips twisted in a sneer and he stoked the rage in his eyes. Time, long familiar with it's duties, slowed and feasted on silence. Two heartbeats, maybe three and Cooper gave me a spit-in-your-face flick of his head and turned his back. The hall was already thick with staff and more were charging upward.

    “Clear the building” he said. It was a firm command yet it betrayed the faintest taint of defeat.

    Hah!

    Secured my perimeter.

    Victory was mine. The glory of it fell on me as it were a swarm of piranha. From the hot black instant I chose to act to now I had ridden each moment like a chopped Harley but now I held liberty the way a suicide dropping from a bridge holds life.

    Roger turned toward me, folded his arms across his chest and made me the center of a dozen pairs of eyes. Still seated I lowered my arm to my side, muzzle to the floor and surveyed them back and forth. All eyes softened save for the pair with the pain for fuel.

    It was time for what is known in this shop as an R-Fac. They all seemed to want one.

    “Jill, if you would, please retrieve the policy letter he dropped which slithered out into the hall”, I said to the very lovely darkhaired young woman sitting to my left. The Dove was in my voice as well as my phrasing and it seemed to be reflected in her dark eyes. Unlike the others she did not turn to take her cue from the Qual Sec but rose to the task.

    Jill was my fellow auditor and had come with her friend to FCDC to do the Academy Levels 0-IV and they co-audited as they studied. I couldn't count the number of times I'd been in Qual and seen one or the other lead one or the other, both smiling and sparkle eyed to a post session exam. They were both from Illinois having started their studies in the large mission in Urbana-Champaign. The spelling is different but her bubbly was always Appellation Controle in my book. Her friend came in the company of her boyfriend who also took some courses. They had returned to The Land of Lincoln but Jill had joined staff. She was a good auditor and zoned in our “be here now” credo and practice she had shown only brief dismay to being the person closest to my line of fire.

    Scientology works. Those unfamiliar with it would be amazed how little disruption a gunshot caused in the room. Yes, I'd been masterful, if I do say so myself; I'd pulled off a variation of the old vaudeville stunt of pulling off the table cloth and leaving the place setting rattled but intact on the table. Still the quality of place setting I had to work with was uncommon.

    Jill returned and placed the paper in front of me.

    “Thank you”, I said. “Jill, you're Jewish You were born to Law. This PL is evidence. Would you watch til the police arrive, tell them to take it and that it might be finger printed?” She nodded. I stood up, looked at the fellow I'd shot, swept my gaze leftward meeting each face in turn until I looked Bobby in they eye. Already the wail of approaching sirens came in the window.

    “The PL is ‘Fair Game’ policy, Wiz.

    “A few weeks ago you confiscated a book from me and tried to punish me for reading it in the privacy of my own home. I found a way to deflect that initiative, dropped the matter and returned to work. But when I had cited The First Amendment you gave no discussion response or acknowledgement. I can be willing to hold my rights in abeyance by agreement but I will NOT have them wrested from me.

    So I down shifted into Second Amendment. I commissioned myself a well-regulated militia of one.” I pointed to my left.

    Now this person I don't know just walked into Qual and stuck Fair Game Policy in the face of an auditor going about his duties.

    Stuck it in my face.

    HARD.

    Then, without explanation, without one word he turned to walk away.

    I do not agree to ‘Fair Game’. I do not approve it. I do not condone it. I will not be party to it. It's rotten and criminally insane.

    Now I'm going to ask him why he stuck that in my face. He'll get the question under Oath in a courtroom displaying The Star Spangled Banner were The Constitution and The Bill of Rights is The Charter of Law and the basis of jurisprudence.”

    The shriek of siren grew to crescendo as I spoke then stopped, it's sentence punctuated with the cl-chunk of car doors.

    I surveyed the room once more and though this may make no sense a confusion which had not existed in their eyes had disappeared.

    I raised the gun and pointed it at the Qual Sec's head and mimed a narsty war face. He flinched. I pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. I twirled the pistol on my finger and grinned.

    “All I ever needed was just one shot.”

    The actor gently places the well brandished prop on the “Fair Game” PL.

    One take. No script. Real blood.

    Eat your heart out Tom Cruise.

    Jill was still standing beside me.

    I pulled back my chair and offered it to her and moved it forward as she sat. “Shalom”, I said. I stripped off my grey corduroy sport coat and hung it on the back of the chair. Then I walked briskly to the door, paused and turned to the wounded.

    “Sorry I had to do that. But. I had to do that.”

    I turned and looked at Roger. He unfolded his arms and stepped aside. I walked down the hall, turned right down four steps to the landing, turned right again and raised my hands palms forward. Halfway down the stairs I could see out the front door. Two cruisers had disgorged their bluecoats and a third was just arriving slipstreamed by the meatwagon. Cooper was on the sidewalk talking to a sergeant with our CO Dave Richards beside him. Another cop was facing the door and when he saw my raised hands he raised his gun. The sergeant turned and drew his pistol and pointed at me. Cooper turned and said “That's him.”

    “Come out! Hands high!” the sergeant blurted. I thrust my hands higher and stepped onto the veranda as they rushed me shouting “Face down! Spread your arms and legs”.

    I lay spread eagle, the sun drenched brick warm against my cheek.

    *****

    The fiction begins with “Bang”. It was to proceed form there to a jail and quickly to discussion with a detective where I inveigh upon him to quickly interview the chap I wounded and the Qual Sc before they've time to collaborate on a cover story. You see, I have them separated with one in the hospital and the other at the org.

    Then after I'm returned to the holding cell a second prisoner will be placed in there with who will turn out to be a young black dude known as “ Jumbo” who just happens to be an old chum from my hippie days in West Oakland in 1970 and after we reminisce he pulls from the seam of his denim jacket...voila! A doobie. Which we then proceed to smoke. Then I lie back on the bunk and go into a long deep and entirely non fictional flashback all the way back to those beautiful granite halls where I was born and trace the path forward to this Moment of Truth.

    And the fiction is non fictional. If I could travel back to that moment with a gun I'd give that young man a flesh wound in a heart beat. It would be worth a prison term for aggravated assault to get to question him under oath.

    Lemme tell ya what happened...

    I was sitting at a table in Qual. Can't say for sure why I was there but most likely I as in a cramming cycle, I had my nose in an HCOB or a PL or whatever and out of nowhere – ha! “nacht und nebel” – an HCOPL is laid on the table at my left hand. A policy letter well familiar to those well read in the internet dialogue on scientology.

    The PL published 21 Oct 1968.

    A day I can date and locate without a meter, vivid as lightning. It was a Monday. The first day of our eighth and final week of advanced training at Fort Knox. We were eleven delta, armored recon and all along our sergeants had praised us to train well for we would all go to The 'Nam but out troop was one of five in the squadron and the schedules were staggered and each of the others would graduate a hundred and twenty and none sent more than eighteen to battle. We heard, we listened but we thought it just a prod. Week Seven ordered were cut for about a fourth of us. A handful were off to shake and bake NCO school. Several were off to Germany. And in an assignment which would have an echo more than three decades later, two were sent Ft Carson.

    Then the morning of my nineteenth birthday we stood to reveille in dim predawn light and crisp bluegrass air and the field top kick announced a blanket order had been issued, everyone who had not received orders was going to Vietnam. Individual orders were being prepared. Those with exemptions could get the orders changed.

    A vision flashed before the inner eye as sharp and tangible as present time. I saw an APC on the dike of a rice paddy and a row of trees lining it's far side. And I was in enfikede positron out of the observer's hatch with a softball's worth of the right side of my head blown away, so clear, so clear.

    I turned to my buddy Private Temple to my left and he turned his head toward me and our eyes met. I saw no fear nor, I think, did he but neither saw joy. He, thank God, came back. In Korea my buddy Carlucci had a line into 'Nam and told me when Temple was MIA and then, three weeks later that he stumbled out of the jungle and was sent home.

    After shock, numbness and I called home that evening and deadpanned my fate to my grandmother.

    The Wednesday morning we were on break from a class and I was in the back of the formation pulling on a Marlboro when I heard the back sergeant say “and Birdwood to.” So I said “And Birdwood too what?” And he said “You're going to Korea.” I said “Hunh?” He said “You, Carlucci and Gano got orders for Korea. I just saw them in C.P.”

    Well I can't begin to tell how disappointed I was.

    The other two were seventeen year old kids and the regs said you had to be at least eighteen to be dispatched to a combat zone. But as I said, I was nineteen and the only one singled out, like always figured it had to do with the phenomenal scores I tacked up when processing in. I'd only gotten one hour's sleep in four days but I got a perfect score on the AFQT and scores between 125 and 142 on the rest of the battery of tests. They all had passing scores of 100 save for the Officer Candidate test with a pass at 125. I scored 140 on it and was offered OCS. I asked if I'd have to spend more than two years on active duty and was told the two year commitment would begin when I was commissioned Just at that moment I wanted to spend not one more day in uniform than necessary and I declined.

    And the decision to single me out could only sensibly have been made by one man, Captain Roberts, our training troop CO. We never saw much of him as we trained but I will never forget looking him in the eye when I reported in. Yeah, sure go ahead and mock the military. I'll listen, Hell, I'll laugh with you if the humor's good. I don't have words to paint him for you, but he and some few men like him along with the many of us who will chip in along with them are the reason we have a country.

    He'd done his time “in country” and he didn't have to back. But he did, the goddam stupid sonofabitch. And over in Korea, when he got pasted Carlucci gave me the news.

    But yes, I remember 21 Oct 1968 quite clearly and the coincidence is amplified whereas about four eeks earlier I opened a copy of Life magazine lying around the day room and made my first acquaintance with Elron, Saint Hill and Scientology. That notorious “entheta” spread certainly piqued my interest. CoS always gripes about the press never giving them a fair shake and that s pretty much true but I'm an intelligent reader and I didn't get the impression the article told much of anything about what was going on but it seemed clearly to convey something was going on. Something...different.

    And I was startled to learn Hubbard was a scifi writer from “The Golden Age of Science Fiction” for I'd grown up an avid reader of scifi and yet had never heard of him. This still seems very strange. In prefacing “Battlefield Earth” Ron lists more than a couple dozen of his erstwhile colleagues and says they are still worth reading, A to Z, Asimov to Zelazny and they are and I had then already read them all yet had never heard before of L. Ron Hubbard. It seemed as though he'd been made into an unperson, a pariah, an unmentionable.

    Then when I first read The Creation of Human Ability in San Francisco in 1971 in the Animal House third floor flat of the grand old scientology co-op on Pierce Street it occurred to me I had first heard of the subject just as I was being trained on the 2111911A1 Colt .45 caliber hand fired magazine fed recoil operated semiautomatic weapon. Upon hearing of the subject of auditing I was immediately grooved in on running R2-45 to E.P. By people lawfully authorized to C/S the action. The gods said this boy is a serious auditor from Square One.

    I certainly recognized the policy letter “canceling” Fair Game on sight nor did it impinge on my TR-O when an index finger was stiffly thrust down on the the page indicating the line “This does not change policy.” I looked up and our eyes met briefly. The thought on my mind was to question if this was related to the book I'd been reading a few weeks before. The young man said nothing but snatching the page turned and walked.

    Bang.

    Yes, I'd bite the bullet on an Assault with a deadly weapon felony for a chance to cross examine him in court under Oath. I got no idea who he was, I'd never seen him before and never saw him again. I suppose he was in the GO. I've given the “Obnosis” grade account of the moment. That's another word Ron made up (and apparently Heinlein was charmed by the “Obnosis Drill” and alluded to it in “Stranger In a Strange Land” with his “Fair Witness” thing) but that is actually normal forensic standard for testimony and incompetent lawyers lose cases when they fail to hold witnesses to it. It is still within obnosis range to describe his facial expression as terse, it has emotional overtone but it is still a physical description. Attaching any impression of his attitude is not forensic and it's not obnosis. But that sonofabitch just reeked of a nasty attitude. And he didn't say a word but we were being to being and he saw in my eyes I knew what he was saying and he knew I knew he knew.

    Fair game hunh?

    I'm an auditor and this sonofabitch has just walked up and slapped a loaded gun upside my head?

    Of course I didn't have a gun and I was on a peacetime footing. So it was baseball. Pitcher throws a message pitch and you see it's going to miss your nose by two inches you don't flinch, you don't blink, you let th umpire call ball one and watch for the next pitch. I didn't give it a second thought, just continued about my business and thought about it later on. There was just the single flash in the moment it probably had to do with...

    Go north from 1812 to the end of the block and look kittykorner and you will see the prim little brick apartment building where Kathie and I had moved into a pleasant modern two room apartment with fall bath shortly before we wed. The org prospered then and our rent was paid on time with staff pay. Surfing the 'net I get the impression few former staff know what staff life can be like when an org approximates proper function.

    Our bedroom had a little bookcase and I was looking at it's contents one evening and noticed a paperback with the title “Inside Scientology”. Kind of a sickly yellow/orange cover with something like a black circle with a red ring around it beneath the title and below that the words “Forty million scientologists are forbidden to read this book.” Hunh? Forty million scientologists? Actually – o my what innocent times! – so far as I knew The Creed allowed us to read anything we wanted to read. O yeah, I understood it was improper for a staff member to pick up such a book and this was something stronger than just a social propriety and I wouldn't have gone out to buy the book. I don't know, perhaps if I were out strolling and saw some student selling off his bookshelf I might kick him four bits for it out of curiosity.

    In fact I thought the uptight attitude rather silly. You see, when I first started taking an active interest in the subject I was a hippie on the street in the East Bay. I'd had some slight contact at the end of winter in 1970 just after release from active duty at the Cambridge mission off Mars Ave between Harvard and Central Square run by some tall young nerd in Robert Hall piprack sit but no connect to it. One day in Berkeley walking by the mission on Shattuck I saw in the window a quote from Leonard Cohen saying “I always fond something in Scientology.” Hey! I go long on L. Cohen. Really? That wild head says there is substance here? Let me check this out. So I went in and yeah, ok, unhhunh... hmm... Then after I got back from Mardi Gras I got a room over in the Haight, about two doors away from the flat where Manson started his family as it happens and checked it out some more. I bought DMSMH and read it, Verrrry interesting. So then I went to the SF Public Library and hit The Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature and was flabbergasted. I spent two days reading everything I could pull out all th way back to 1952. Garbage, just garbage, no reporting whatsoever on what Ron had actually said or what was being done. Yeah, yeh I came across the quote from 1948 or 9 when he is alleged to have said at some social gathering “The way to get filthy rich is to start a religion”. So what. What matter the motive if the work is good? Did Henry Ford start a motor company to get rich or to put the nation on wheels. Who cares. The question is do the cars run? O, they run? Good. And they're inexpensive? Even better. Ok, Hubbard is rich, Did he produce a product? I see a product. Do I care if Hubbard spends his free time fondling gold billion and whacking off? No. There were a couple comments I noticed such as some report of some squashing of dissent and it cited The Creed. But the author seemed very snide with no real interest in The Creed except that it might be used to attack scientologists. I saw The Creed posted quite visibly in the org and thought that was good enough for me unless proven otherwise. In a couple, all too few pieces a journalist would slip in a line or two to preserve their personal integrity. I was young then, I didn't know. Now I understand when an editor sends a report to bring back a story about a weird quasi-religious UFO sex cult the reporter brings back a story about a weird quasi-religious UFO sex cult or his copy doesn't get publishes. But there was one writer who expressed some wonder that all the disaffected people he spoke with would go back if only Hubbard would change his ways. Just a few words but it came through very clearly intelligent free men and women were quite certain whatever flaws there were to the subject it was certainly a cogent valuable subject. And another was impressed by the easy unaffected manner of a church spokesman he interviewed, so very unlike the slick PR men he found everywhere else.

    But it was the ludicrous nature of the press which closed the deal. I bought the Comm Course. Sort of ironic, it was the “entheta” press of whom the scientologists so fiercely even viciously complained that made the sale when their own approach was so off-putting to me. I told them simply I bought in despite their sales pitch not because of it.

    I dunno, I guess the problem is this: the product is so good CoS must do everything it can do to drive people away or they'd be inundated with customers who want some.


    ***Where does below paragraph go?***
    I would like to believe and I am confident it is so, several other correspondents honored the noble ideals of their craft and sought to preserve their integrity inserting brief honest observations in other pieces which fell like shorn locks to the floors of the clip joints writing their paychecks.

    I asked Kathie where the book came from and she said she'd gone through the things a girl named Robin had left behind when she blew and had picked out our clock/radio and the book. I didn't get to know Robin but I'd seen her around/ A young woman maybe 19-23 with bleach blond bobbed hair, tall, slender, sort of plain leaning toward pretty, one of those many people who join staff for two or three months and disappear. It's not incomprehensible why CoS thinks such books “entheta” and “suppressive” as it is likely some friend or family member gave her the book to get her out. Hey, if I ran the place it wouldn't have inspired the recent Hollywood remake of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” Our fellow bipeds wouldn't be called “raw meat”, orgs wouldn't be found at the tone level of Owning Bodies on the Expanded Tone Scale and there would be a staff reading room with published material on the subject with brief attached commentary where necessary.

    So I opened it up and read a couple pages and then a few more pages the next evening. The next day after I'd brought my morning pc to the examiner, Wisner stopped me just inside the front door and said he'd like to see the book I'm reading. I said “Sure” and went to get it. I never asked how he knew. I audited in my bedroom and perhaps I had committed the faux pas of leaving it out where a preclear had seen it. In point of fact the contents and condition of an auditing room are the responsibility not only of the auditor but the Tech Sec through the DTS and are as well the legitimate parvenu of the Qual Sec. Properly thinking I would have returned it to the bookcase but I might have left it out inadvertently yet purposefully because it had been my thought to raise the question of the statement on the cover and had as well thought then of the allegation I recounted from the study in S.F. Or Kathie herself might have mentioned it to Bobby. She would later prove herself capable of a nasty cunning but this would have been done either out of curiosity or to relieve me of an innocence she did not share. Not long after we first entwined she had said “You don't know what they do” and had not expanded on he statement. Or maybe our fresh new OT VII had been inspecting my bedroom exterior from the corpus delecti. Returning I stepped in from sunshine and handed my pal the book.

    “I'm assigning you a Condition of Liability” he said. Though it was years before Lucasfilm released Star Wars you could see him draw a light saber and be dazzled by the goldenrod glow of the sprouting shaft as he marched me down the stairs to HCO in the cellar down the hall to the back office of the EO. I spoke quietly and simply telling him The First Amendment gave me the right to read a book in the privacy of my own home. No response as we continued apace. I rephrased the statement and reiterated, again quietly with no firmness pressed into it but quite clearly. No response.

    Properly arrayed, he between the door and I, we entered a room I recall being in but once before. I'd arrived at FCDC with hair down my back and in from The Coast and some young man, eyes full of mischief, took me into the back room to show me a small treasure from the org archives, a short and somewhat snippy letter to LRH from Tim Leary. Greg Layton was doing a turn as EO and Bobby said “I want you to put him in Liability”. Greg's eyes went from his to mine. I said, again quietly, “Put me in Treason” and if you can't see a bright blue narrow column rising from a shining silver maybe you should be reading The Ladies Home Journal instead of this. Bobby spun around just about like he was a stroked and bored '38 Plymouth with milled heads and a tank full of white lightning, raising a rooster tail of dust in moonlight and I was a hillbilly moonshiner whipping a bootlegger turn on a Smoky Mountain back road. Yeah he did! His back to Greg and facing a stark brick wall he lifted the book in front of his eyes and said “Oh...uh... I thought this was a different book, a really bad one.”

    'Nuff said.

    My own blue blade was receding before his goldenrod had vanished at the hilt and as he turned back around I slipped past him into the hall, intent upon collecting my next PC.
    this is my basic "i was never a scibot" testimony
    I didn't drink the KoolAid but I sure did drink the wine
    I wasn't on the spot but I sure did walk the line
    You know I saw her coming but I didn't hear her go
    'Cuz she said goodbye to me years before she said hello


    http://cmdrbirdsong.org

    http://churchofamericanscience.org/

  13. #6520

    Default Please, thread, don't die:



    ​Please, thread, don't die, please. Nozzie lives forever! I love him.

  14. Thanks Enthetan, Commander Birdsong says "thank you" for this post
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    LOL! Enthetan laughed at this post
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