September 10, 2021

Has the American Left turned into Richard Nixon?

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 11:33 am

      Remember the heroic American Left’s finest hour back in the 1960s?  Back when we protested that terrible atrocity known as the Vietnam War?  Boy are those days gone forever.  Here in the 2020s, the American Left has its little heart set on following Henry Kissinger’s brutal policies to the letter and sending anyone who isn’t in lock-step with them off to the Hanoi Hilton.


      “I am not a crook!” screams the American Left as it demands that we carpet-bomb Syria, turn Palestine into Mai Lai, reenact Apocalypse Now in Africa, the Middle East and Latin America and win the hearts and minds of the American people by locking them up.

     ‘If we don’t inject every man, woman and child in America with the military-industrial complex’s latest version of Agent Orange, napalm our elders with Remdesivir and outlaw Ivermectin like it was the Viet Cong, then China will cause the Domino Effect!” screams the Left.  Richard Nixon couldn’t have said it better. 
      These days, the American Left is giving a standing ovation to Tricky Dick.  On so many levels, that’s just wrong.

September 3, 2021

Hurricanes or COV$D: Which should New Orleans fear most?

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 12:26 pm

       In the French Quarter, on historic Jackson Square, there were still a few palm-readers and fortunetellers left, still toughing it out in these hard economic times.  “You will have obstacles in your path but you will overcome them,” said Mssr. Beau as he pulled both the Joker and the High Priestess out of his tarot deck.  With a hurricane coming and the most strenuous COV$D lock-down in America already here, I predicted that he was probably right.  And while I did manage to get out of town just hours before the hurricane hit, I also managed to get stuck in an elevator for a half-hour — and stuck on a streetcar that broke down.   Obstacles indeed.

     I also met a Cajun guy on the Canal Street bus who told me that the very best place to find authentic gumbo was in the cafeteria of the local general hospital.  Seriously?  “Best gumbo in Louisiana,” he said.  This I gotta see.  Yeah, well.  The gumbo was okay — but definitely not worth an hour’s ride on the E5 bus to get there.

    But what was even more newsworthy about my bus trip out past City Park, the Greenwood Cemetery, the Causeway and even suburban Trader Joe’s?  The fact that this gigantic hospital was practically empty.  No one in the lobby, no one in the ER and almost no one in most of the corridors.  Wha?

       “Where is everybody?” I asked.  “I thought Louisiana was at the epicenter of the pandemic?  And that this hospital was the epicenter of the epicenter!”  What happened?  Finally I cornered a nurses’ aide and he confessed.
      “We re-direct most of our patients off to one specifically-designated hospital.  Then, on the evening news, they’ll make it look like all our hospitals are overcrowded and overwhelmed by COV$D cases.”  Oh.  Of course.  It’s the visuals that count most in Louisiana these days.  Hell, it’s the visuals on the evening news that count most everywhere, truthful or not. 
      If I lived in New Orleans, I’d be far more afraid of hurricanes (and bankruptcies and suicides and bad juju) than I would be of COV$D. 
       At the airport just before Hurricane Ida struck, it looked like a very organized version of Saigon in Kabul as the last plane out was being desperately boarded by refugees from the High Priestess — and the Joker.

PS:  Speaking of COV$D, Afghanistan and hurricanes (oh my!), all this chaos appears to be Disaster Capitalism’s finest hour.  Once again, the World Economic Forum has happily released its flying monkeys to protect its treasures — and dropped a house on the rest of us.


Total bad news about the Vaxx:

May be an image of text that says 'AFGHANISTAN RUINED. PALESTINE TEAR-STAINED. IRAQ PLUNDERED. SYRIA MOLESTED, YEMEN STARVED. കാുള WHO DID THESE TERRIBLE DEEDS? WE DID.' Good grief.  In order to get a video of Dr. Yeadon telling us what is actually happening regarding this COV$D nightmare, we gotta practically go on the Dark Web! May be an image of 1 person and text that says 'FACE MASKS ARE UNHEALTHY. com BASICALLY, WE'RE RE-BREATHING OUR OWN SNOT'


August 29, 2021

March 2020: My luxurious night at the Palace Hotel

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 2:13 pm
Editor’s note:  Here is Chapter 2 of my forthcoming book “2020: My Year of Traveling Dangerously During the Lock-Down”.  Only 15 chapters left to type up.  I can do this.  Maybe.  This chapter starts on Day 10 of the Lock-Up — and we are now on Day 531.  Time to start typing.  What else have we got going on?
March 26, 2020:  Everything is dead as a door-nail around Berkeley due to the COV$D hysteria.  Maybe hotel and airline prices are cheap on Expedia and I can travel somewhere exciting that I couldn’t previously afford.  Hmm.  “Five days in Puerto Vallarta!  Only $425 including airfare down and back!”  Yeah, but.  What if I go down there but can’t get back home again?  Oops.  So guess what I’ve decided to do?  “For just $200, you can spend the night at San Francisco’s legendary Palace Hotel!”  Now you’re talking.  I booked it.  Yay!
March 28, 2020:  Packed up my suitcase this morning and here I am — with the entire seventh floor of the amazing Palace Hotel all to myself.  And also probably the sixth floor and the eighth floor too.  Wow.  And I had practically the entire BART train to myself on the trip over to San Francisco as well.
     And the hotel lobby was empty.  And the famous Garden Court was shut down.  And they even gave me a free turkey sandwich when I walked in.  And knew my name at the registration desk — because I was the only one there.  It’s like a ghost mansion here, a beautiful antique ghost.  Only not all that spooky.
     I also got a free shower cap.  A $200 free shower cap.  And a big-screen TV.  “Man up, Jane,” I told myself.  “You didn’t come here just to watch no freaking TV.”  The swimming pool is closed, however.  And they’ve got some weird-arse electronic toilet.  OMG!  Spoiler alert!  They even gots a self-heating toilet seat!  I could just hang out in this luxe hotel room forever — but really should go out and explore San Francisco,  Or at least go sit in the lobby next to the Garden Court and suck in the solid-gold ambiance.

     No one in the lobby at all.  I’m serious.  This place is empty as Lazarus’s tomb.  Or was it Christ’s tomb?  Sat on a posh velvet chair and read a book for an hour.  The concierge talked to me about the hotel.  “On an average day we would have at least two doormen, four or six bellhops and two or three concierges.  When the big conventions hit town?  Double that.  And now there are only ten employees total — and only ten guests.”  Invisible guests.

     “We easily had 300 to 400 employees.  Housekeeping for 500 rooms.  Bars, restaurants.  The Garden Court itself employed 20 people in the kitchen alone.”  All of that gone.  So very sad.  And multiply this domino effect for all the hotels in America — large and small.  I don’t think people realize the magnitude of this economic disaster.  He also told me about the alleged ghost of President Taft.  Apparently Taft dropped dead at a speakeasy across the street “but they smuggled him back into the hotel through a secret tunnel in order to save his reputation.”
     Time to stop stalling and go off to tour Chinatown.  Hopped onto the first Muni bus I saw heading north and it dropped me off right in front of the San Sun Market where I bought a duck leg.  Already cooked.  Two dollars.  Chewy.  Ate it while walking along Stockton Street toward North Beach and the historic Beatnik part of town.  Chewing on the duck leg.  Alone.  In the rain.  Feeling like a caveman — or like Will Smith in some post-apocalyptic drama.  There’s the legendary City Lights Bookstore!
     Then I met my culinary downfall, an ice cream store that was actually open.  No will power as usual.  “Two scoops of strawberry and one scoop of chocolate fudge please,” I said.
      North Beach is lovely.  In the rain.  Huddled here with the ghost of Alan Ginsberg.  Reminding me of that life-changing moment back in 1958 when I saw him and another man walking down Grant Avenue — and the other guy had long blonde hair reaching down to his waist.  It was a total paradigm shift for me, that men could actually have long hair.  I immediately became a Beatnik.  Changed my life.
     Then the #30 Muni bus arrived and I was whisked off to Union Square.  Also deserted.  I’m feeling more and more like the star of I am Legend.  Walked slowly back to the Palace Hotel.  And on the way I discovered my true (or at least latest) passion in life, taking photographs of reflections — reflections of The City in glass, in windows, in mirrors, on black granite walls, in puddles of water from the rain.  Good to know.  I may even hold a photo exhibit at Gallery FaceBook as well.
     Now I’m back at my palatial suite with the big-screen TV and the heated toilet seat, in for the night.  Then the hard part will begin — getting to sleep.  Wish me luck.  I will need it.  There are too many thoughts in my brain right now, going on and on and on.
March 29, 2020:  Boy did I sleep a lot last night.  Quality dreamless sleep for four hours — but then followed by an hour and a half of buzz-kill wide-awakeness.  However.  I then redeemed myself with another four and a half hours worth of total-knock-out sleep again.  Why is all this discussion of sleep important?  Pay attention here.  Both our minds and our bodies run on sleep.
Dream report:  There was a huge high-powered attorney, larger than life, standing in the customs office at the Palestine border where I had been thrown out by the IDF three years ago.  And then, suddenly, the formidable attorney was divided into around ten little mini-attorneys, forced to dress like little old ladies — house dresses, black socks, 1940s hairdo and all.  It was humiliating for him.  That will teach him to hang out with the Zionists who were mean to me back then.

     All of this good sleep gave me a fabulous idea.  Two of them actually.  First I’ll go downstairs and live-stream the Glide Memorial Church Sunday service, watching it from the Garden Court!  Second, I’ll offer the manager a two-for-one deal wherein I would pay for one more night if he would give me a second night for free.  Wow.  The hotel is closing on March 31 anyway.  What do they have to lose?  Then I could tour the rest of The City and eat tacos in the Mission and lunch in the Tenderloin at the Glide church.  Genius!

      Well.  My generous offer was just refused.  Turned down flat, to be exact.  Hmmm.  Maybe I should actually try to dig up the freaking extra $200 in order to spend the last night at the grand old Palace before it closes — hopefully not for good.  Nah, got nothing to pawn.  This whole COV$D lock-down is truly messed up.
     And the wi-fi connection to Glide didn’t work either.
     And the trip back home was weird too.  More crazies than usual were out on the street — although one group of hard-core heavy-metal Goth types looked interesting.  I almost said, “Can I take your photo,” but frankly they just looked too scary.  Picturesque as hell but totally scary.  I got to thinking later, however, that they might be just unemployed bike messengers.
     Waiting for 20 minutes at the Montgomery Street BART station was scary too.  Just me and four desperate-looking homeless men.  I gave a dollar to the one who approached me.  Protection money.  Buying him off.  Is this the beginning of the end of America as we (used to) know it?
April 7, 2020:  Ha!  I’ve re-discovered the fine art of “stay-cation”!  The Palace may have closed down, sure, but perhaps there are other local hotels.  Screw this lock-down!  Not sure if my physical health is in danger from COV$D-1984 but I know for certain that my mental health is!
     My budget can no longer afford the Palace so I tried some other, less opulent hotels.  The Sens Hotel in north Berkeley?  I bartered for a better price, still being a cheapskate.  No luck there.  The Doubletree down by the Berkeley marina?  They gave me a deal.  And a giant chocolate chip cookie too.
April 8, 2020:  Soooo glad I came to the Doubletree.  Wandered down by the docks around midnight last night, under a shiny full moon.  Almost wanted to howl.  Best stay-cation ev-ah.  Except of course for the Palace.  And the historic, rambling Claremont hotel up in the hills — which is now also closed.   What to do today?  Stroll down to the shoreline, look at the sailboats, drink tea at the marina.  Plan my next stay-cation!


Stop Wall Street, War Street, Big Pharma and Big Tech from destroying our world.   And while you’re at it, please buy my books.

New Orleans is dying — and COV$D is not the killer

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 1:37 pm


     I was supposed to attend a convention in New Orleans this week.  It got cancelled.  A new COV$D scare.  Lots of fear porn.  I went anyway.  Here’s my eye-witness report.  Bourbon Street is empty.  There’s no line at the Café du Monde.  No one is going on the “Haunted New Orleans” voodoo tour.  Mardi Gras World only has a few stragglers.  Tourists have all been scared away — and the locals have been scared away too.

     Remember that old Billie Holliday song?  “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans….”  I miss it too.  NOLA is a dead city.  Yes.  That New Orleans.  It’s not “Always for Pleasure” here in the Big Easy any more.  Even the crypts in St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 are dead.  And the fortunetellers in the Vieux Carre can’t see any future here either.  No good times are rolling any more.

      What happened?  The lock-down.  Fear porn.  Every single night, the TV blasts us with stories that people here are dropping like flies from COV$D.  The mayor decrees that you can’t even enter a restaurant or listen to jazz without proof that you’ve either gotten The Shot or had a negative PCR test within the last 72 hours.  No moofelettas or beniots for anyone who dares to disobey.

     And all this control-freak behavior is happening because of a virus with a 0.07% death rate?  They murdered New Orleans for that?  The city that bravely survived Hurricane Katrina and its broken levees has now been killed off by voodoo from Big Pharma.  And the rest of America is being killed off too.  I always thought we were braver than that.  

      But it’s still not too late to laissez le bon temps rouler!


Stop Wall Street, War Street, Big Pharma and Big Tech from destroying our world.   And while you’re at it, please buy my books.

August 19, 2021

Trapped, lonely & pissed off: How COV$D ruined my life (and yours too)

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 7:14 pm
     No, I do not have COV$D — but COV$D has still managed to ruin my life.  And I bet that COV$D has managed to ruin your life too.  For chrissake, take some Ivermectin, swallow a bunch of Vitamin D, gargle with hydrogen peroxide mouth wash, spend a few days in bed and then let’s get on with our lives.

      I can’t go anywhere, I can’t breathe through a mask, food prices are slowly creeping up on me, my vaxxed ex-friends hate me and I hate the vaxx.  I can’t get on an airplane, I can’t even freaking go to the freaking park and sit under a freaking tree unless I’m masked up and six feet away.  And I bet you can’t do any of that stuff either.

      “But Jane, it’s a deadly disease.”  No it’s not.  COV$D has a 0.07% death rate.  Or at least it did until they gave us all The Shot.  Now who the freak knows what the death rate is because The Shot caused this virus to mutate into variants in order to survive.  And no real data or actual science is coming out of the CDC.  “Nothing to see here.  Please move on.”

    The airline just cancelled my trip.  I’m heartbroken.  “You can’t travel outside the U.S. without a vaxx.”  Yet the CDC won’t even tell us how many people have died from the vaxx.  45,000 at last count, a month ago.  The evening news, however, will blame all their deaths on Delta, The Sequel.  Yeah, right.  Plus 600,000 Americans apparently died from COV$D.  Let’s give their ghosts a good burial and apologize that they all could have been saved by hydroxycholoquine instead.  Most of those half-million dead guys could have been saved for pennies on the dollar.

      “But, Jane, we all know that Trump recommended hydroxycholoquine so it must be bad.”  Trump is an idiot.  But HCQ works.  Biden is an idiot too.  He should be recommending Ivermectin, not trying to lock us all up for the 521th day.  Both Trump and Biden should be in jail — along with GWB and Obama for getting us into all those stupid brutal unnecessary hellhole “wars”. 
     But apparently “wars” didn’t make enough money for the elite.  Not to worry.  Fear porn and The Shot have made them even more $$$$.  And now we are all trapped, lonely and pissed off — all except for Fasci, Gates, Newsom, Bezos, Cuomo, Big Pharma and the Davos Boyz.
      I’m trapped, lonely — and pissed off as hell.  Why aren’t you too?
Post-vaccine drop in killer T-cells, CD8 cells:  CD8 cells keep all other viruses in check.  Are we having fun yet?

It’s a tragic state of affairs when America’s best and brightest intellectuals are so censored that they can only publish their findings out on the fringe.  What?  We’re not supposed to know that Israeli hospitals are being swamped with COV$D in a country with a 90% vaxx rate?

And John Titus is always on top of what the central banks are gonna try next in order to destroy us mere peons:


August 12, 2021

More precious than gold: The Ivermectin black market

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 11:59 am

“Back in the ruins of post-war Germany,” our history teachers told us in high school, “there developed a vigorous black market due to the shortage of goods.”  But the idea of actual shortages was so foreign to us back then that all we could do was imagine Walmart or Costco painted black.
     Back then, no one could even conceive of a black market here in bountiful America.

     But all of that has drastically changed in the past 516 days.  Now, instead of dealing in chocolate, cigarettes and Levi’s like in post-WWII Europe, the new American black market deals mostly in Ivermectin, a highly successful treatment for COV$D.

     “A friend just smuggled some in from Puerto Vallarta.”
     “I got mine on the Dark Web from Canada.”
     “My veterinarian sold me some on the down-low.”

     “My cousin’s a nurse and got me a few tablets for grandma.”

     Who knew that America was also going to develop a black market — but when it becomes a matter of life or death for yourself or a loved one, those few small tabs of Ivermectin that we scored in some back alley are suddenly more precious than gold.

(Apparently, PCR tests get so anxious to please that they also recognize fragments of various pet viruses as well as fragments of any other viruses that might be hanging around.  Apparently, the joke’s on Rover and Fluffy.)



Stop Wall Street, War Street, Big Pharma and Big Tech from destroying our world.   And while you’re at it, please buy my books.

August 6, 2021

World Peace vs Frozen Peas: How pain can really focus one’s priories

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 9:19 pm
     I just read an article in BuzzFlash telling me that every single person in America who hasn’t received The Shot should be immediately put on house arrest and forced to wear ankle monitors.  Wow!  “If only Hitler and Stalin had thought of using ankle monitors instead of gulags and concentration camps,”  This would have been my instant response a month ago.  But now?  Big yawn.  I gots other, more important things to worry about besides democracy going to Hell in a hand-basket.
      Funny how pain can focus one’s mind.

    Three weeks ago my ribs got injured in a freak accident and I’ve been in agony ever since.  Suddenly the specter of all this COV$D lunacy taking hold of Americans like they were lemmings?  I just don’t care any more.  Let them jump over their cliffs without me.  I’m more interested in applying frozen peas to my chest and where did I put that extra bottle of Tylenol (and how I can unscrew its child-proof cap without injuring yet another rib).


     But I did manage to pump out a few more memes on the subject of VAR$ANTS before I totally collapsed — and also to finish writing an actual Regency romance, the ultimate guilty pleasure.

PS:  Here’s a very good example of how American propaganda works against Syria — using the same techniques that America now uses against you and me in order to make Big Pharma look good: 
May be an image of 1 person, outdoors and text that says 'WHAT HAPPENS WHEN OUR FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC POLICES MATCH? Americans TI die from The Shot and Syrians die from Americans'
May be an image of Jane Stillwater and text that says 'Why are more people getting sick AFTER receiving The Shot? DO THE MATH: VACCINE + UNHAPPY VIRUS= VARIANT'
May be an image of text
May be an image of 1 person and text that says 'THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES THE VACCINE IS AN EPIC FAIL mgflp. com' 

July 26, 2021

“Your mom is so Berkeley”: Techies & Fear Porn arrive at the capital of Free Speech

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 12:33 pm


     I no longer have to travel to the ends of the earth in order to report on the news.  Sadly, the news now reports to me.  I don’t even have to get on an airplane.  News is no longer happening in far away places any more.  News is now happening right down the street.  Fear porn has arrived in Berkeley, California.

     Back in the 1960s, Berkeley used to be home of the Free Speech Movement.  People demanding free speech?  That was big news.  And then it wasn’t.  Once again, people started believing everything they read in the newspapers.  I had to travel to Iraq or North Korea or Honduras or Uganda to get a good story.  But now the Big Stories are right back here in Berkeley.

     Back in the day, we all used to make up really funny “Your mom is so Berkeley” jokes.  “Your mom is so Berkeley that when she got arrested for protesting the war on Vietnam, she had to hock her macrame in order to make bail.”  That sort of thing.  Boy, things have really changed.

     Here are some of our latest “Your mom is so Berkeley” jokes — except that they aren’t funny any more.
     “Your mom is so Berkeley that she now works for both FaceBook and Google, lives in a tiny little house below San Pablo Avenue that cost one million dollars two years ago and is so afraid of a virus with a 0.07% death rate that, even after 500 days in forced lock-down, she still wears her face mask to bed every night.
“Your mom is so Berkeley that she only works from home, never leaves her house, has her groceries delivered by Amazon, thinks that Dr. Fasci is a saint and not just a tool of Big Pharma, believes that if getting one Shot will keep her safe, then getting three or five Shots will keep her even safer, and strongly believes that Joe Biden never has a Senior Moment where he misplaces his car keys and the nuclear football.

     “Your mom is so Berkeley that she believes everything she is told on the evening news.”

May be an image of 2 people, cat and text that says 'DAY 490: ARE BIG PHARMA AND BIG TECH FINALLY TIRED OF PLAYING CAT-AND-MOUSE MOUSE WITH US? UH; NO.'



Stop Wall Street, War Street, Big Pharma and Big Tech from destroying our world.   And while you’re at it, please buy my books.

July 19, 2021

An indigenous ceremony: My totally noisy night in a quiet countryside

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 1:39 pm

     Yes, this is yet another proposed chapter in my future book entitled “2020: My Year of Living Dangerously During the Lock-Down”.  It’s probably not gonna be a best-seller but I’ve had fun remembering this very weird year (and a half).

      We are now on Day 490 of the lock-down.  Are Big Pharma and Big Tech finally tired of playing cat-and-mouse with us?  Uh, no.  The elite at Davos actually referred to us peons as “hackable animals”.  My home town just re-established its harsh lock-down policies once again, all because of a variant with a 0.02% death rateSo much fun!
March 26, 2021:  I am so ready for this!  Another sacred indigenous getting-to-know-nature ceremony starts tomorrow.  What will happen this time?  What will I learn?  What great form of enlightened knowledge will the sacred Mother grant me?  What visions will I see?  I can hardly wait!
March 27, 2021:  A friend picked me up and off we went, into the very heart of California’s never-ending Central Valley farmland.  “You are supposed to fast for a day before the ceremony,” the shaman told us — but when we pulled into a roadside gas station near Oakdale, there was a sign saying “Homemade Ice Cream”.  I couldn’t resist.  Strawberry.  Two scoops.  My bad.

     At twilight we pulled up in front of an isolated farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, spread out our sleeping bags and settled in for a wonderful night of visions and dream quests far away from the Big City bustle and roar.  Out in the peace, quiet and fresh earthy smells of a farmland countryside?  Not quite.  No idealized pastoral scene here.  Not even close.  That bubble just popped.

     The indigenous ceremony was lovely.  The shaman softly played drums and sang healing chants with kindness and grace, strongly empowering us with ancient indigenous ways.  About 30 of us then settled peacefully back into the oncoming quiet of nighttime under quiet stars and a silent full moon.
     Turns out that our ritualized slumber party was being staged right next to a rather large dog kennel — right on the other side of the fence next to us.  20 feet away.  Big dogs.  Little dogs.  Yapping.  Barking.  Growling.  Howling.  Ferocious, scary, loud.  All.  Night.  Long.  20 feet away.  Crap.
      But wait.  It gets worse.  Right next to the dog kennel was a rather large chicken ranch.  30 feet away.  Apparently chickens never sleep either.  At least the roosters had sense enough to wait until 4:00 am before crowing.  30 feet away.  From me.

     But wait.  There’s more.  On the other side of the dog kennel was a rather large goat barn.  Seriously?  And every time the freaking dogs barked or the freaking roosters crowed, the freaking goats would go crazy too.  Ba.  Ba.  Ba.  All.  Night.  Long.  So much for the peaceful countryside.

     But wait.  More cacophony.  On the other side of the farmhouse were train tracks.  A train whistle blew every two hours.  All night long.  And on the highway next to the train tracks, large 18-wheel trucks also roared by — from twilight to dawn and beyond.
      Plus the woman next to me got sick and threw up.  Often.  A lot.  And the man two sleeping-bags away had grim nightmares and screamed every few hours.  People ate, sang, laughed, cried and got up to pee and poop — which then set the animal farm off even more.  All night long.
     The sacred Mother did not visit me at all this night.  I think that she was too scared.  Can you blame her?  And I got no sleep as well.  So much for the quiet country life.
March 28, 2021:  We drove home on an early Sunday morning, only stopping in Pleasanton to buy coffee at Peets and Fritos at Safeway.

March 31, 2021:  I guess that, upon reflection, I did learn something important during my trip to the Central Valley after all.  “Expect the unexpected.  Life never goes the way that we want it to go.  Be prepared to learn from the bad as well as the good.”  And next time you visit the countryside, bring earplugs.


Stop Wall Street, War Street, Big Pharma and Big Tech from destroying our world.   And while you’re at it, please buy my books.

July 9, 2021

No skin in the game: Who can we trust to not lie to us?

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 4:23 pm


      Here is a list of important scientific resources that have been banned on YouTube, Google, Twitter and/or FaceBook.  I’m not talking about conspiracy theorists or fruitcakes here.  These highly-trained science nerds have actually done the actual research, have been punished for speaking out, have no skin in the game and are not serfs to the Grand Illusion.

      Why isn’t anybody else pissed off about all this harmful and dangerous censorship besides me?  Especially when approximately 500,000 American COV$D deaths could have been easily avoided if only we had treated the sick with even freaking vitamin D or Intermectin — instead of waiting until the victims were on death’s doorstep, venting them until they died, and then just shrugging our shoulders and walking away?  I’m furious.  I’m calling these bastards out!  Why aren’t you?

Here’s Bret Weinstein (author of “A Hunter-Gatherer’s Guide to the 21st Century”) musing on truth, science and censorship in the time of a pandemic, a “My Dinner with Andre” moment:

And Del Bigtree’s Highwire is always a winner if you want scientific truth and entertainment at the same time:

Dr. Zelinko clearly outlines possible catastrophes resulting from The Shot, and also how to minimize damages if you’ve already taken The Shot — a must-watch:

Dr. Ealy is sick and tired of all the lies.  Finally somebody gets pissed off besides me!  Go him!   

Wanna really get into the nuts-and-bolts science of Da Jab?  Dr Caude discusses possible infertility.  She even uses a whiteboard!

 And you just gotta love James Corbett!  What’s really happening in India?
Allison McDowell sees our Big Tech future differently than Bill Gates does — luckily for us:

And of course Big Pharma hates Robert F. Kennedy!  And don’t even get me started on all the gross censorship of what is really happening in the Middle East!

And don’t even get me started on all the gross censorship of what is really happening in the Middle East!  Vanessa Beeley is routinely censored. 

Tim Anderson is routinely censored too.  “There have been at least eight dirty wars against Middle East countries.”  Iraq, Iran, Lebanon, Palestine, Libya, Syria, Yemen, Afghanistan, etc.  America is always the aggressor here.  Who knew?

Smoking gun just in:  Dr. Martin stated that the SARS virus was actually patented in the United States many years ago.  Shocker!

Inline imageInline image


July 3, 2021

Syria, Palestine & America: Are there worse things than death?

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 2:11 pm
     Do you look forward to dying?  Almost nobody does.  Here in America we call it “passing away”.  That’s just chicken-shite.  Death is death.  You pass a math test.  You pass cars on the freeway.  But when you die, you are dead.
     Palestinians know this.  They’ve watched so many people die that they even have a name for it.  “Genocide.”  And yet, even after 75 long miserable years, they still keep on dying rather than submit to a brutal occupation.  Why?  Because for them, death is better than living in chains.
     And the same thing is true of Syrians.  Thousands upon thousands of them have died heroically in order to save their country from brutal invaders.  No one there wants to spend their days living in just another Gaza.  They don’t want to live in chains either.

    And now let’s discuss the plight of Americans — Americans who are neither being tortured, napalmed, imprisoned or starved.  And yet Americans are so afraid of dying that they actually voluntarily chain themselves up.

     After almost 500 days of living in terror of a virus with a 0.07% kill rate and six different effective cures, one would think that Americans would be sick and tired of being enslaved by their own petty fears.  But no.

     Ask yourself, “Why are Americans so afraid of dying — even when they aren’t even in any danger?”  I have no reasonable answer to that question.  Do you?


Almost everything we need to know about COV$D is contained in these videos now posted on Big Gee’s Blog.  And guess what?  You won’t find any of these videos on Google.  No big surprise there.  Censorship is rampant on the Web.   Sigh.

And here’s a moving video statement regarding COV$D by an Australian aborigine master painter:

And last but not least, here’s me singing an improvisational rap song on my 79th birthday. Go, me!


Stop Wall Street and War Street (and Big Pharma) from destroying our world.   And while you’re at it, please buy my books.

July 1, 2021

Growing old gracefully: Face creams help but The Shot does not…

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 2:14 pm

     Google just informed me that “Consumers spend an estimated $382 billion on cosmetics each year.  Skincare products alone will represent a $135 billion market by 2021.”  Wow.  All that money?  Spent just to keep us looking younger?  Seems to me that looking younger must be a pretty important goal here in America, right?

       If this is actually true, then here’s a helpful experiment that each of us can easily try at home.  Look closely at all your friends and neighbors who have been locked down for the past 451 days — and have been given The Shot.  Then report your observations scientifically.  Tell the truth now.  Don’t the subjects of your study mostly look at least three or four years older than they should?  Kind of more gray around the skin tone?  Several more wrinkles near the eyes that didn’t used to be there before?   Be honest here.  Am I right or what.
      So here’s my point.  If it’s important to you to look less old than your age, then spending money on skincare is probably a good idea.  But if you truly want to look younger, then why are you letting Pfizer, Johnson and Moderna be your beauticians?  That makes no sense at all.

PS:  Speaking of old age, I just got back from spending four glorious days in the magnificent Sierra Nevadas — one of the highest mountain ranges on the planet.  And what did I learn?  That these monumental megalithic grand escarpments, higher than any imaginable man-made construct on earth, will be doing just fine in another four billion years from now, long after our current corporate war-mongering technocratic propagandized trans-human artificially-intelligent screwed-up locked-down surveillance states have long been forgotten.

     There’s a moral here somewhere.  “Nature bats last.”  Sorry about that, World Economic Forum.

PPS:  There are 1,671,329 residents in Alameda County where my home in Berkeley is located.  Newly-revised-downward figures just issued by county authorities state that only 1,223 of us died from You-Know-What in all of 2020. That’s only a 0.07% death rate.  On the other hand, 3,092 of us died from diabetes in Alameda County — yet we never locked down McDonalds or CocaCola.  What’s with that?


     When I told a nurse friend of mine what I had just learned about the 0.07% death rate, “That’s wonderful news!” she gushed enthusiastically.  But then I realized that she thought I mean it was 0.07% after over 50% of county residents had received an experimental injection.  Er, no.


Stop Wall Street and War Street (and Big Pharma) from destroying our world.   And while you’re at it, please buy my books.


Pee-see-are tests: The smoking gun

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 2:12 pm



      Like someone screaming “fire” in a crowded theater, all we ever heard throughout the year 2020 was “Cases!  Cases! Cases!”  But were there really all that many actual viral cases out there — or was it mostly just smoke and mirrors?  According to a recent graph supplied to us by the mayor of Berkeley, California, actual deaths from you-know-what amounted to only 0.07% of Berkeley’s population back in 2020 — way before the Pfizer, Moderna & Johnson’s shots were even fired.

     According to the mayor’s graph, deaths from The Virus hovered way down around zero back in 2020 — and yet the number of “cases” last year shot through the roof.  You can’t have it both ways, guys.  Either the virus was deadly or it was not.  And if it really was all that deadly, how come so many PCR tests came back positive — and yet hardly anybody died?  Or even displayed symptoms?

     Obviously, the PCR tests must have been faulty.  If they were not, then most of us would have suffered from runny noses at the very least last year or been stuck in our beds for days if not weeks or would have died — even if “asymptomatic cases” were even a thing.  And here is the actual smoking gun:


 PS:  My research shows that something else of interest is afoot these days regarding COV$D.  Before The Shot became readily available, the evening news called COV$D a horrific deadly pandemic disease, right?  But look at what’s happened to it now that The Shot has (allegedly) saved us from the Grim Reaper.  Now the nomenclature suddenly changed.  Why is that?  Here’s why:


      The Shot is designed to give you a small dose of COV$D, right?  So you take that shot.  And then many of you inexplicably end up with some debilitating respiratory disease that may or may not cause you to die — and this new thing that you have now looks suspiciously like the original COV$D, right?  Only now the evening news tells us that what you have is not a result of taking your shot but is actually only just a mild “summer cold” — even if it kills you.

      Since it has now become inconvenient for Big Pharma to scream “fire” in a crowded theater (again), post-jab COV$D has been degraded to only a summer cold.  “No cases here.  Nobody’s died.  Move along.”  And so we all do move along — even though people are actually dying from The Shot.  Even though our fire exits are blocked.  

     It’s embarrassing to think that every single thing that we’ve done in the past 463 days has been driven by a well-planned Big Pharma public relations campaign.  


Is VAERS deleting the records of people who have been Shot to death?–Replacing-VACCINE-DEATHS-Hugo-Talks–lockdown:c?src=open&r=BDs8q7zJ33C6YN9eZLdx8DwMyNx2gsWg

Is Notorious F.B. deleting the reports of any prominent scientists who don’t support the dominant narrative?  Duh, yeah.

     I shouldn’t include this damning report from Dr. Richard Fleming so as to avoid giving you nightmares and also so I can keep my Notorious F.B. page, but what the hell:

     And then there’s Robert F. Kennedy Jr giving a presentation that I attended in San Jose recently.  The man is a walking encyclopedia of truly true COV$D facts.

May 31, 2021

San Diego, March 2020: My very first lock-down experience (but unfortunately not my last)

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 4:12 pm

Editor’s note:  Remember how surprised we all were — back when the lock-downs first started?  ‘It’s only going to be for a few weeks,” they told us.  “It’s only until we flatten the curve.”  Yeah, right.  Here is the first chapter in my proposed book, “2020: My Year of Living Dangerously During the Lock-down”.   It will take you back to a time that we can now barely remember — 441 days ago, back when we weren’t all locked down and injected.

March 9, 2020:  For some unknown reason, I’m not getting very excited about my upcoming trip to San Diego.  “Just think about the adventure!  The possibilities!  All that stuff to write about!” I keep telling myself — yet all I’m feeling right now is anxiety and a headache coming on.  Not even stepping onto a BART train to the airport with a suitcase in my hand is perking me up — although it was kind of fun to do my chicken dance at the TSA checkpoint after they had completely ignored me for ten minutes.

      I was trying to patiently wait my turn for that metal detector thingie but the TSA guys were working really hard at ignoring me, but it’s pretty hard to ignore a 77-year-old lady who is doing a chicken dance and singing “Take a chance on me!” at full throat for ten minutes.  The bastards are lucky I didn’t twerk.
     All that turbulence on the airplane didn’t help either.  How am I going to fly all the way to New York City in April when I’m this disinterested in merely flying to San Diego.  But the good news is that I only got lost four (4) times on the way from the airport to my AirBnB, way out in the suburbs.
     However.  Now that I’m here, it’s not really clear if I’m going to survive spending the next six days with a hovering-helicopter-style AirBnB host.  I already love her dearly — but she’s definitely a germaphobe freak.  I have to swab down the bathroom and kitchen sinks every time I use them.  Not allowed to eat in my room.  Have to wear special disposable house slippers.  Arrgh!  Sooner or later she’s going to find out the deep dark truth about me — that I’m not all that afraid of germs.  No, I’m not a slob.  But I’m not exactly a neat-freak either.  What am I to do?

     Walked over to stock up on food at Von’s supermarket and buy toiletries at Walgreens.  Welcome to San Diego.  I could have done all that shite at home.  My book convention is being held at the Marriott Hotel so I took a bus and the light-rail trolley over to check it out.  Next?  A microwave dinner was involved.  And I cleaned up completely afterward, honest.  Even wore disposable rubber gloves and used Clorox wipes too.  This is unnatural.  Germs are good for our immune systems.  Clorox isn’t.

     Tomorrow it’s supposed to rain all day.  Really hard.  Guess I’ll be spending the day in bed.  Coulda done that in Berkeley too.  Maybe there’s a branch library nearby that won’t involve hours on public transportation?  Maybe I should just concentrate on reading, dreaming and watching TV?
March 10, 2020:  I’ve been up since 4:15 am.  Shitty day so far.  “The time is now 9:16 am.”  I’ve still got a headache.  Am I having fun yet?  I’ll be okay tomorrow for sure but today sort of sucks eggs.  Guess I’ll hobble down to the library.  That’s about all I’ve got planned for today.
      But.  “Actions speak louder than words.”  So I finally dragged my sorry bootie down to the bus stop, caught the #120 bus to Fashion Valley, caught the downtown trolley and ended up at Old Town San Diego — which turned out to be the perfect place to go.
      First off, there was a real blacksmith’s shop — with a real smithy too.  Three of them.  And boy did they know their stuff.  A pleasure to watch.  Back in time at least 150 years.  Hell, the whole town was back in time at least 150 years.  My kind of place!  I used to be a history major in college, remember?  And a wannabe archeologist too.  Plus it was Taco Tuesday at the Cantina.  And with guacamole too.
      Then I visited the stable, the haunted house, the courthouse, the church, the tobacco store — loved the old-timey tobacco store.  Then I felt better.  Much better. San Diego might be fun after all.
      Next chapter in my life on public transportation?  Back to the trolley, followed by the #120 bus again.  Up to the Linda Vista branch library wherein I got locked out of my Yahoo account on their computer and even after an hour of cursing under my breath, still couldn’t get logged back in.  Arrgh.  Then back to the #120 bus.  “Hey!  That was my stop!”  Rats.  And the bus didn’t stop again until I was back to freaking Fashion Valley.  Waiting for the next bus, an hour later.  No more #120 bus for an hour.  Sat on a bench.  Read a book.  Finally.  The bus finally took me back up the hill.
      Back at the AirBnB, my attitude had completely changed, I was happy to see my host after a day of getting lost in the rain and I even asked her for helpful tips on how to clean a bathtub.  Next I’m gonna ask her what she uses to clean floors.  My host is a gold mine of cleaning information.  This could be just what I need.
       Now I’m still trying to hack my own e-mail while lying around my room in my nightgown, watching the Hallmark channel on TV and eating microwaved enchiladas.  Life’s good again.  But I still hate airplanes.
March 11, 2020:  “My name is Michael Grossman,” said some guy in my dream last night.  He kept popping up there — in the midst of a bunch of spooky goings-on in my childhood home.  No idea who he was.  Then the phone rang in real life and it was Ann, another author attending the book conference, who also wanted to visit Tijuana today.  Grabbed some microwaved sausages, ran out the door and jumped on the #120 bus to meet Ann at a downtown trolley stop.
     After the usual confusion we finally found the trolley to San Ysidro, the last California city this side of the Mexican border.  Anna told me her entire life story in the ensuing 45-minute ride.  I told her mine.  We’re good.
      Bought burgers and fries at the famous San Ysidro McDonald’s, walked across the border and here we are.  Ann is all talking about “El Chappo”.  Huh?  “No, not to worry.  He’s in prison now.”
       Our goal in Tijuana was to meet some asylum-seekers.  Border-crossers were a big deal in the news just then — Trump’s Wall, the kiddie prisons and all.  We snagged a taxi driver after going through customs.  “$100 for four hours,” he said.  “$50 for six hours,” Ann replied in Spanish.  We settled for $75 for five hours.  Let’s go!
     First he took us to PLDHA.  Don’t ask me what that stands for.  I have no idea.  But the place was totally awesome.  We met actual real buscando asilos!  Real asylum-seekers, running away from violence in Central America.
     One man had experienced a gun being held to his head back in Honduras.  There were mostly men at this shelter.  So much to write about — can’t write it all here now because I am totally worn out by all this information.  Will get to it tomorrow.  Hopefully.  But it was a completely amazing day.  Totally amazing.  And our cab driver turned out to be our knight in shining (Nissan) armor.
March 12, 2020:  And it’s raining like hell right now.  It’s not spozed to rain in sunny San Diego, right?  Trudging in the rain is gonna be no fun.  So I won’t.
       Anyway, back to my Tijuana report.  “My story,” said another man, “is that my parents took me to America from Mexico when I was four years old.  But last year, ICE suddenly showed up and deported me.  They just took me down here and dumped me out on the street.  I knew no one here, had no family here, had no money.  Nothing.”  He found this place and now serves as their majordomo and translator.
     Then he showed me where the men slept — in two rooms that were crowded with three-tiered bunk-beds constructed from scrap wood.  50 bunks to a room.  And only one shower.  It was primitive as hell.  But it was far better than sleeping on the streets.
     Then we met the director, a kind, compassionate and well-educated woman from a prestigious Tijuana family who has devoted her life to charity and good works.  “We operate on a shoestring budget here — but operate we do.”  I gave the director a big hug — and then another big hug.  She didn’t have to be doing this.  But she was.
     Next Alberto took us to a shelter for women, run by Italian Catholic nuns.  “We have 72 women and children staying here,” said the director.  This shelter was so obviously more well-heeled than the men’s shelter.  It even had real store-bought bunk beds — only two bunks high and not hand-cobbled together out of scraps.  The kitchen was modern and immaculate.

       But enough about writing about Tijuana.  Will write more about it later.  The rain has just slowed down for a minute so I’d better run off to the #120 bus again.  But did I get wet?  Oh yeah.  It was a disaster.  Soaking wet.  Missed my trolley stop.  Again.  Waded through flood waters.  Clung on to a chain-link fence while doing a balancing act over said flood waters — all the while desperately clutching my umbrella.  Finally arrived at the book convention.  Sat for two hours in a cold draft while volunteering at the registration table.

     I did win a free book at one of the author panels.  Met some old friends.  Started to finally dry out.  Started to actually have fun!  Plus I managed to recruit several celebrity authors to join my own panel on Saturday.  Scored some interesting free books.
     But then the other shoe dropped.  “I’m sorry but we need to shut down the conference,” announced its director.  “County board of health’s orders.”  And, boom, that was that.  Sadly, I took the trolley and bus home in the rain, trudging along with at least 25 pounds of free books.
     Free books!
     Everyone at the conference suddenly started giving them away.  It was like Christmas at a library!  Everyone sorted through the piles of books and unzipped the gift bags in delight.  A happy ending after all.  An accidentally- one-day conference but that one lone day was totally fun.  “Books in a time of plague.”
     Tomorrow I’ll have all day to write more about Tijuana.  And on Saturday too.  And the day after that.  Nowhere to go now.  Even Disneyland is closed.  Hopefully the library won’t get shut down.  Hopefully my airline won’t get shut down.  I’ll see what Expedia has to say.  I should just go home early.  But why?  What’s happening at home that isn’t happening here?  Plus I’ll have to explain to my apartment-sitter why I’m back so early.  Screw that.  I’ll stay.
    Plus this lock-down is only going to last a week — 14 days at most.  “Just long enough to flatten the curve.”
March 13, 2020:  Friday the 13th.  Rainstorms so far this morning.  I’m not self-quarantining.  I’m weather-quarantining.  Rats.  Bored already.  Time to write down some more Tijuana notes before I forget what all else happened down there.  Next we went to a tiny restaurant and had a delicious beef stew.  “It’s called barbecoa.  They cook it overnight on slow heat.”  Yummers.  We also ordered some tamales.  And tacos.  Guacamole.  Wow.
     Next stop was at the Catholic shelter for women and children run by nuns and another compassionate director.  But the beds were much nicer.  Did I already say that?
     “It is difficult for Mexico to absorb so many refugees into our economy — but not impossible,” said the director.  “We have teachers, a clinic, a psychologist, attorneys and even a beauty school here.”  Salon de belleza.
     “It is not people who are bad.  It is the political situation that forces them to be bad.  We must bring down the violence, lift our hearts, lift up the bad.”  Turn it into good!
     “Who we are is not what we own.  If every human being performed just one good deed a day, the whole world would change for the better.  It would be a revolution.  We must work on the individual level.”
      She told us that many women there had been raped.
     Next we asked the director about the approximately 100 men we had seen across the street from the sanctuary as we drove up.  They had been sitting or standing against a wall across the street, eating plates of rice and beans.  “We also serve breakfast, lunch and dinner to homeless and migrant men,” she replied.  “We serve around 300 meals a day.  Women living here cook and serve the meals.”  We saw long tables with large pots of beans and large pots of rice being ladled out.
     The women and children here were cheerful.  It was a cheerful place.  Children played in the sunny courtyard.  Women nursed babies.  “We try to get families back together.”  Making the best outcome from tragedy.  Happy yet sad.  I almost had tears in my eyes.  Ann definitely did.
     Then came our reward for our hard day’s look into sadness and pain.  Alberto drove us off to the beach!  We sat on bar stools at a counter that overlooked the Pacific ocean and watched the waves roll onto the sand.  Drank margaritas.  Gobbled down tortilla chips.  Looked at Trump’s Wall as it plunged into the ocean.  Heaven.  But with a tinge of reality thrown in.
     Next it was time to walk back through the border crossing.  As we stood in line waiting our turn to present documents, about 100 young men walked by us in single file, each one dragging a small roller-board suitcase.
     “Where are you off to,” I asked.  “De donde?”  Los Angeles.  But why?  Porque?”
     “Fresas.”  They were going to California for three months to pick strawberries.  They were braceros!  Legal immigrant workers to keep agribusiness happy and do the painful stoop-labor that most Americans turned down their noses at.  Why else would immigrants be allowed across the border — if it benefits large corporations, why not?  If it merely benefits human beings, then forgetaboudit.
     “Watch out for back pain,” I gestured by stooping and holding my back.  They laughed.  They were hopeful.  They would work hard but bring money back home to their families, doing the work that Americans don’t want.  I wonder how much they will get paid.  Paid by the hour, by the basket?  Fresas.  For Americans to eat.
     Going across the border was easy.  Back to California.  Back onto the trolley.  Boom.
     Meanwhile, back at Friday the 13th in San Diego and the new lock-down.  UPS just delivered a package to my Air BnB so I guess the lock-down isn’t total.  I’m trying to figure out how to change my flight.  No luck there.  So.  What do I want to do today?  No idea.  I should self-quarantine but where is the fun in that?
     Going to the library is always fun.  Central branch.  Perfect!  I now have a San Diego library card!  Plus the new central library is awesome, is right next to the trolley line and has free wi-fi!
     Then I walked over to the Gas Lamp district and met a nice homeless man who directed me to Jimbo’s, the local healthy answer to Whole Foods.  And they still had toilet paper on their shelves!  I bought the homeless man a gluten-free cherry-chocolate energy-bar thingie out of sheer gratitude — and in return he told me how to get to the Green Line trolley station.
     “It’s right next to where they have the Comic-Con conventions.  They even make the station announcements there in Klingon.”  I’m in awe.  Reached the trolley just before a huge downpour.  Another one.  It’s not spozed to rain in San Diego.
     I’m now trying to figure out what to do tomorrow.  Legoland is closed!  Now that’s going way too far.  “I can take you up to Mission San Diego tomorrow,” said my Air BnB host.  Perfect.  How nice of her.  She has turned out to be really nice.
     Can’t get Expedia to change my flight to earlier — but I am bravely having a great time anyway.  Stiff upper lip!  But I still can’t believe that Legoland is closed for a month.
March 14, 2020:  Today has turned out to be a most perfect day — especially since it started out so badly.  2:00 am?  No sleep at all so far.  None.  Zero Zip Nada.  Sleep remedies to the rescue?  Homeopathy, herbal remedies, melatonin, tryptophan, circular breathing, counting sheep?  All of them.  Downing pills like tequila shots.  Nothing.  Finally!  Around 4:30 am, one of them worked.  Have no idea which one.
     Then I ran off to the nearest branch library and totally indulged myself on Yahoo and FaceBook.  Off to Mission San Diego after that.  Loved it there!  Maybe it was the happy souls of the padres at the mission (doubt it — those guys were merciless) that made this place feel so holy but more than likely it was the untarnished souls of the innocents they slaughtered in the name of building churches and securing slaves.  The bastards.
     In any case, there was a strong aura of sanctity surrounding San Diego de Alcala.  This particular saint was famous for his healing powers.  Boy could we use him now — to heal all our greedy politicians and corporate vampires.
     Mission San Diego was only two long blocks away from a trolley station.  So.  Where should I go next?  Seaport Village!  Where I could stand on the embankment and (almost) see Point Loma, my sweet childhood home.
     I remember back when my mother used to take me to visit all the missions in California — or at least most of them.  So I decided to finally forgive her for being such a money-grubbing social-climbing warrior queen and try to only concentrate on the good times we had every summer when she took my sister and me on road trips to Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo, Los Angeles, San Diego and Tijuana.
     Checked Seaport Village off my list.  So far I’m loving today’s trip down memory lane.  What happens next?  “I’m gonna take my trolley to Old Town Road,” to paraphrase Lil Nas X.  Another good experience there, wandering around the Old West again.  Mariachi music this time.  An old schoolhouse.  An old hotel.  Refrigerator magnets!
     Then I chatted with a nice lady on the bus, walked back to the Air BnB, drank some cheap wine and ate too much “healthy” junk food.  COVID was the farthest thing from my mind.
March 15, 2020:  Another miserable sleepless night.  What’s with that?  It’s my last day in San Diego and I’m being shut out of the dreamtime.  No matter how much you want it or struggle to catch it, sometimes you just can’t force the dreamtime to arrive.  What a shame.  I do my best work when I’m asleep.  Screw it.

     I only have one more day in San Diego — so time to make the most of it even if I’m a sleep-deprived zombie.  That woman I met on the #120 bus just called and asked me to meet her in Point Loma.  Point Loma!  “Get off the trolley at Old Town and then catch the #28 bus.”  But that bus only comes once an hour so I went to the Lane Field Waterfront Park instead and stared at all those abandoned cruise ships.  And saw a baby manta ray too.  So cute.  And threw a penny into the San Diego Bay in order to make a wish.

     “I wish that people would just freaking shut up about COVID-19 and stop being such wimps.”  The entire media has gone freaking nuts about this coronavirus — but nobody in San Diego is coughing or even wearing a face mask.
     Next stop?  Back to the central library.  I love libraries.  But tomorrow this one closes for three weeks.  “And my church was closed today too,” said the bus lady.  Seems just a bit extreme.
      Then I jumped on the San Ysidro trolley again, got off at the borderline McDonalds, bought some fries and crossed over into Tijuana.  Again.  I’m so proud of myself.  “No Fear!”  And the photos of me on top of the famous Zebra Donkey were awesome.  They looked just like the one taken of me as a kid on a Zebra Donkey way back in 1953.
     Then I bought some refrigerator magnets, priced some tequila (too expensive) and snagged a taxi back to the border.  He only drove me one freaking mile.  “That will be 22 dollars.”  Nice try, buddy.  I handed him a ten-dollar bill, threw in a dollar tip and fled.  Whew.
     Back to the USA.  Back to McDonalds.  Back on the trolley.  Wonderful day.  I can safely say that I have experienced San Diego to the fullest extent — given that I only had such a short time.
March 16, 2020:  I actually got seven (7) whole hours of sleep last night.  Now I’m good to go.  And I checked in with my house-sitter back in Berkeley.  She’d already left.  “But I totally stacked your refrigerator before leaving, even bought you a whole leg of lamb — so you are all set for the lock-down.”  That should last me for the full 14 days of the lock-down.  Now all I gotta do is pack up and head off to the airport.
     But wait, what?  The State of California just issued a verdict that anyone over the age of 65 has to stay at home because apparently they get the disease more easily and can therefore spread it.  Say what?  Now anyone over age 65 has become the new Typhoid Mary?  Xenophobia against seniors as well as Chinese?  That sucks eggs.  What?  We’re just spozed to stay out of sight and quietly starve to death?  Will I need to get Botoxed before I can go out?  Screw that.

March 17, 2020:  I may not have seen everything in San Diego but, damn, I’ve come pretty close.  And considering that both Legoland and the Zoo are out of bounds due to COVID-19, I did amazingly well.  I miss San Diego already.  I miss Tijuana.  I even miss my Air BnB host’s obsession with being super-clean.  I wonder, however, what she will think about hand sanitizer now.

May 27, 2021

In layman’s terms, why are pro-vaxxers dying?

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 12:16 pm

     It seems to me that all I do these days is read up on COVID statistics.  Bor-ing!  And yet several clear patterns are emerging that make it all worth the effort.  According to Dr. Eileen Natuzzi, post-vaxxers are beginning to suffer from “Multi-System Inflammatory Syndrome” and, in some cases, this new disease appears to be fatal.  According to the CDC’s vaccine adverse event reporting system, pro-vaxxers appear to be dying at the rate of 30 people a day.  

     How can this be?
      What the freak is this “Multi-System Inflammatory Syndrome” exactly — and why is it killing us off at that rate?  Here’s my non-scientific explanation.  The villain here is obviously a Bad Guy called Spike the Protein.  And although Pfizer, Moderna and Johnson portray him as a smooth talker, he is actually a tough guy with sharp edges.
      And when he drives through our blood streams in his getaway car, he careens down these tunnels from side to side, constantly bumping up against the walls of our veins and arteries, causing system-wide inflammation.  Spike the Protein is truly a gangster.  Out of control.  Him and his billion other gangster buddies are wildly hot-rodding around each injection-recipient’s blood stream.  No respect.
     The result of all this reckless driving and inflammation is several kinds of internal bleeding and/or clotting.  Period.  And taking my cue from Dr. Natuzzi, I call this new development an Inflammatory Syndrome of the Circulatory System.  Hats off to Spike for inventing an entirely new disease.  But then that’s what gangsters do, right?  Try to steal stuff that isn’t theirs.
     But what happens next?  Here is my next question for Science.  How can we haul this evil Spike off to traffic school?  How can we throw him into Blood Clot jail?  How can we stop him before it’s too late?

Zionists are at it again — acting like genocidal freaks.

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 12:15 pm

Not a good look for them.  Or for America either.






















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