December 30, 2021

Pay up, you cheap bastard: Anthony Fauci owes me 500 pesos

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 7:10 pm

     I’m saving up all my weird travel stories for later — stories about how United Airlines gave me a free trip to Puerto Vallarta, or how I fell into Yelapa Bay fully-clothed and drowned my poor little cell phone to death, or how I scored over-the-counter ivermectin and hydroxychloroquine in the back room of a P.V. pharmacy or….  Right now I’m just gonna write about how pissed off I am at Anthony Fauci.

     Because of that greedy avaricious bastard, I almost didn’t make it back home to the USA.
     “You can’t board your flight unless you can show a negative COV$D test result,” said the kind man behind the ticket counter at the airport.  “There is an antigen-test lab out in the parking lot.  I suggest you go there.”
     Outside in a huge white tent that was doing land-office business, another kind man collected my money — 350 Mexican pesos in change and an odd assortment of American dollars.  “That’s all I got.”  It was enough.
     “Come back in 30 minutes.”  A half-hour later I received a piece of paper declaring that I had negative test results too.  “You do not have COV$D.”  But everyone received the exact same negative test results.  Almost one thousand travelers fill the airport here, at the very height of the Omicron scare, and yet there wasn’t even one of them with a positive result.  Not even one.  Seems like they always give us the test results that the globalists need us to have — whether to scare us into giving up our rights or to just snag up our travel bucks.  What a racket, what a rip-off, what a scam.
     Like cattle, we all stood in line at the tent.  Like lemmings, we all handed over our 500 pesos.  Like box-car children, we all dutifully got our noses swabbed.  I was the only one who complained.  “This is blackmail!  None of us are sick!  500 pesos for a worthless slip of paper?  I’ve been robbed!”

     Even the lab-coated swab technician agreed with me.  “But what can we do?  I’ve got a family to support and you need to get back home.”  Win-win situation?  Hardly.
     That bastard Anthony Fasci owes me 500 pesos.
It’s always a good thing to watch  Pick an episode.  Any episode.  Watch and learn.
America is in the drug-cartel business.  Sinaloa has a hecka lot of competition:
And you can always count of Steve Kirsch for important insights into “The Science”:
Here’s an interesting theory from a South African doctor — that spike proteins are like bee stings.  We show no allergic reactions to our first bee sting but may develop allergies after the second or third one.  Similarly, the first COV$D spike protein may not affect us but the next spike protein we are exposed to can, be it Alpha, Delta, Pfizer, Moderna, Johnson or whatever.  Solution?  Early treatment with antihistamines!  Duh.




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


December 19, 2021

Groucho & Karl: Who knew that Americans would all become Marxists?

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 5:57 pm
Groucho & Karl: Who knew that Americans would all become Marxists?
      “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend.  Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”  Groucho Marx said that.  So I just keep on reading — out here where there’s more light.  And I’m still slogging through Sophie’s World, a book about philosophy.  Just finished reading the chapter on Karl Marx.  Yep, he was a philosopher too — and a fairly interesting guy.  “The heart of any society is based on our ability to make and produce whatever kind of stuff that we need to keep ourselves alive and well.”  Karl Marx said [something like] that.

So.  Who produces all the life-sustaining stuff in America today?  Dresses, dishes, digital equipment, dolls and doo-dads all come from China.  Our all-important farmland is mostly owned by Bill Gates.  It is the CDC and Big Pharma that control our life-or-death medical choices — not Roe vs. Wade.  And everything else here is delivered by Amazon.  Karl Marx would have said that the basis of America’s society is always somebody else — not us.  And he would have been right.

      Groucho Marx said, “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.”  Not to worry.  Club America does not want us mere working-class peons to join it.  And neither does Club Global want us around either.  “Why bother with humans?  They are so messy.  Robots should be the basis for our society.  Robots can do the work.”  Nobody I know personally said that.
     So what should we do?  According to both Karl and Groucho, we need to go start our own damn clubs!  Let’s shut out and blackball those Evil Globalist Bastards, Big Pharma billionaires and military-industrial elites.  Let them be the outsiders for a change.  Let them be the unpopular kids sitting alone in the lunchroom — while we ourselves finally become the popular guys.
     “But Jane,” you might say, “How do we even manage to become our own means of production???  I don’t have a clue how to knit socks or grow kale.”  Yeah, but…. We gotta start somewhere.
     “I find television very educating,” sez Groucho.  “Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book.”  Let’s start by turning off our [made in China] TVs, stop getting indoctrinated to buy stuff on FascBook and figure out how to grow beans on the front lawn.  Decentralize everything so that you can walk everywhere?  Buy a freaking horse.  Think locally.  And, to also quote Groucho, “Learn from the mistakes of others.  You can never live long enough to make them all yourself.”

PS:  What other famous philosophers do we know about?  Lenin and Lennon of course.  John Lennon said “All you need is Love”.  Sure.  But we also need food, air, water, shelter and the occasional “Ata Boy”. 

     Vladimir Lenin, on the other hand, was the start-up prototype for today’s Evil Globalist Bastards.  He was not interested in the fate of blue-collar workers, the salt of the earth.  He wanted to play with the Big Dogs and would have been the absolute darling of Davos had he been alive today.  He would have hated John Lennon — and even Karl and Groucho Marx.

PPS:  Omicron is soooo much milder than Delta that it’s almost like having the sniffles.  So if everyone in the world comes down with a case of Omicron, then we’ll all be naturally immune to COV$D forever.  Big Pharma’s worst nightmare, sure, but then we can just go back to worrying about Evil Globalist Bastards, the military-industrial complex attacks on Palestine, Venezuela, etc. and American bombs over Syria and Yemen.

     If every human being on the planet gets this milder and nicer Omicron variant, then we all will become naturally immune to COV$D.  Bye-bye to Big Pharma profits, bye-bye to Day 647 of this stupid lock-down, bye-bye to “vaccines” and “boosters” that don’t work, bye-bye to torturing our children with face masks, bye-bye to idiots in our health departments, bye-bye to censorship, bye-bye to….

Written 40 years ago, this sci-fi novel feels like what’s happening today (except that the author blames all his crazy lock-down on poor old Karl Marx and not the Evil Globalist Bastards):
Good advice on how to make our shiny new spike proteins happy:
Here’s Joe Rogan’s famous podcast with Dr. Peter McCullough.  Everything you would ever want to know about the treatment of COV$D:
“If living was a thing that money could buy, you know the rich would live and the poor would die….”




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


December 14, 2021

Memes of the Day:

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 2:43 pm


     Is it finally time to get pissed off?  Duh, yeah.







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

December 6, 2021

APRIL, 2020: Ghostly COV$D nostalgia at the haunted Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles

Filed under: Uncategorized — Jane Stillwater @ 11:24 pm
Editor’s note:  This article will soon be Chapter 4 in my next book, 2020: Living dangerously in a Time of COV$D.  Lots of chapters yet to be typed up. I better stop slacking and get to it.
April 25, 2020:  “We have a special deal for you,” bragged Expedia.  Good timing — one day after my $1,200 government stimulus check had arrived.  I’ll take that deal!  Fly down to Los Angeles, spend a night at the legendary Biltmore Hotel and fly back home the next day.  Boom.  Only $300.  But then complications set in.  Flight changes kept popping up in my inbox until the only sensible thing to do was to spend another night at the Biltmore.
     Money to burn!
     “Sunday night will cost you $60 more than Saturday night,” said Expedia.  Huh?  I balked.  But COV$D-19 had made me rich!  Money’s no object.  Why not.  Then my friend Samantha called.  “Remember when I asked you what you’d do if you won the lottery?  And you replied that you would use that money to travel?”  And thus be able to benefit the most sentient beings, my ultimate goal in life?  Yeah, I remember.  “Well, be careful what you wish for.  Now you’ve got money to travel with on the one hand — but on the other hand a lot of people got sick and a lot of small businesses crashed.”

     Bummer, she’s right.  And do I feel guilty?  Absolutely.  And yet here I am, on a teeny-tiny airplane, with only eleven other passengers aboard, on my way to the legendary Biltmore Hotel.  “The Biltmore is the most haunted hotel in America.”  Bring it on!

     Oh, and BTW, I think that I already had COV$D — and recovered.  Or perhaps not.  Last week I had some of the symptoms of a mild flu plus my usual weird desire to hide under the bed for days with only a good book.  Does that count as COV$D?
      The plane is taking off.  Biltmore ghosts, here I come!
     And the bus from LAX airport to Union Station downtown was cheap and quick.  Finding the metro station was easy.  “Just take the purple line and get off at Pershing Square.”  Okay.  Now I’m here.  But which way is the Biltmore from Pershing Square?  Ask a cop.
     “I’m a big fan of The Rookie police show,” I told three cops standing on the corner.  “Might you direct me to the Biltmore?”
     “See that large brick building that we are standing right in front of?”  Duh.  Beautiful Georgian facade — but the freaking front door was closed, locked and chained.  Oh crap.  Am I going to have to sleep outside with the other hobos on Pershing Square?  At least the night was warm.  Slowly and sadly I walked around the one-square-block-sized hotel.  Locked down and locked out.  But wait!  There’s a secret back entrance!  I’m in!

     And I’ve just entered an amazing fairyland.  Suddenly I was so glad that I came!  This hotel puts even the Palace Hotel in San Francisco to shame.  Ornate carvings.  Incredible chandeliers.  Vast stairways and ballrooms and terraces and chambers.  Art Nouveau!  In the style of San Simeon.  In the style of freaking Versailles.  I’m in heaven.  Bring on Katherine Hepburn’s ghost!  Luxury.  Beauty.  History.  So worth the (imaginary) risk of getting COV$D-19[84].  Tomorrow maybe I’ll just curl up in a chair in the lobby, read a book and pretend that I’m Mary Pickford.  Plus this place is vast.  Plus I’ve got the entire ninth floor all to myself.  I could willingly just move in and live here.  Guess I have a thing for old hotels.

     Time to go to sleep.
     So glad I came.
April 26, 2020:  Slept like a log.  But, damn it, no ghosts appeared.  At least no famous ghosts.  At one point in time, a female detective ghost just stood at the foot of my bed and stared at me.  She was perhaps 40 years old, light-skinned, shoulder-length brown hair, wore a blazer, had a detective’s badge hanging from her neck and was no one I’d ever seen before.
     And my only dream involved a party in Eugene, Oregon, at a house so very typical of the homes where hippies lived back in the 1960s.  I kept trying to make an herbalist brew me a perfect cup of tea.  Frustrating.  Then I went and sat on the front room couch next to an old flame of mine.  I was tired — and apparently pregnant.  Weird dream.
     What to do today?  Perhaps an unofficial tour of the Biltmore?  Perhaps an unofficial tour of the nearby cathedral, Our Lady of the Angels?  A nice long walk in the heat?

     Wow, just wow!  I just did a complete tour of downtown L.A.  On foot.  In 93-degree heat.  Staggered back to the Biltmore with sunstroke and dehydration — but boy did I cover all the bases.  First there was Pershing Square where I got yelled at by a panhandler for being a racist bitch because I wouldn’t give him five dollars.  “I bet you would give money if a White boy asked.”  But the actual square itself was all closed off due to the lock-down.

     Then on to the Grand Central Market, a gigantic funky food court.  Bought a cobb salad for $18.  Pricey, right?  Then I trudged up to Olivera Street for the best taco in the world!  And also a barbacoa beef enchilada.  Yummers.
     But Olivera Street was mostly closed down.  All the quaint little souvenir shops were boarded up.  On to the cathedral.  Built like a bomb shelter basically — or like a castle-slash-bunker under siege.  Have no idea what the inside looked like because the heavy wrought iron gates were bolted closed.  On a Sunday morning.  I crossed myself and moved on.
     Walked past the Mark Tabor Forum, the Chandler Pavilion, the Walt Disney concert hall.  A fashion model was doing a photo shoot in front of the concert hall so I jumped right in.  “Want a little old lady in your shoot?”  I don’t pay my SAG-AFTRA dues for nothing.  But apparently they did not want me  Their loss.

     Then more trudging, back down the hill in the heat to the Biltmore.  Almost didn’t make it.  Thank goodness for air conditioning.  Also I ran into two Mexican men who were joyously practicing their mariachi music and vocal harmony over near the cathedral.  Lovely.  I offered them three dollars in support of The Arts but they graciously refused.

     This trip has been awesome so far.  Now it’s time to chillax for a while and then go read a book in the famous and impressive Biltmore garden court.  Took more photos.  Absorbed more awesomeness.  Looked for more ghosts.  Then back to my room to eat leftovers from the Grand Central Market, watch The Rookie and eat a Kind bar for dessert.  Dark chocolate.  Simple pleasures while surrounded by old-Hollywood decadence.
     So glad I came.  And yet, damn it, almost any kind of change or effort is always so scary for me.  I’m always scared.  Scared of airplanes, scared of travel, scared of people, scared of writing, scared of everything.  It’s a miracle that I get out of bed in the morning — let alone go off into war zones or take on the Dark Overlords of the world.  But still I do it.  Stupid?  Dumb?  Or brave?
     Oh shite.  Now I’m afraid of having to wake up at 6:00 am and being out the door at 7:00 am.  Being coherent that early in the morning really scares me.
    I can do this!
     But I still hate to leave the Biltmore behind.
April 27, 2020:  Damn it, I had a really rough time getting to sleep last night.  1:00 am.  2:00 am.  3:00 am.  Still wide awake.  Used homeopathic and herbal sleep remedies.  Nothing worked.  What’s with that?  I was desperate.  Finally at 4:00 am I went under — only to be woken up two hours later by reception.  Crap.  Plus I had really weird dreams.
      First dream: my apartment complex’s maintenance guy discovered that all our sewer systems were rotting away beneath our feet.  Second dream:  A young Saudi man was staying with me to help out around the house and then the doorbell rang and there was his mother, seeking asylum.  And she had two little children with her — and she was pregnant.  And then a few more children appeared.  And then more and more children.  No one knew what to do, least of all me.  So we hid them all in a basement temporarily (hopefully not one connected to rotting sewer pipes).  But then there was an earthquake or cave-in or something, and clods of dirt started falling from the ceiling of the cellar and on to the hapless woman and her family.
      Then the phone rang.  6:00 am?  “I’m up!  I’m up!”  Honestly.  Somehow I managed to stagger off to the airport — but only after spending a few last lovely moments sitting in the glamorous Biltmore lobby and sipping hot tea.
     Chomping on Fritos at the airport kept me going long enough to make it home and play freecell solitaire long enough to decompress.  I wonder where I can go next.  Got myself hooked on stately old hotels, especially haunted ones.  I wonder if they have any in Arkansas, the one American state left that I have never been to.  Las Vegas seems like a waste of time because all the historic hotels there are closed — but I do want to go there for Mothers Day.  Or perhaps go to Sacramento.  It’s got haunted hotels.  Or….

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