Lucretia King rewrites Catcher in the Rye

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51 Tamal Vista Blvd, Corte Madera, CA
 7 days 9–9:00 pm  


from Seaglass: Stinson Beach Poems

On the Roads

Poem by Claudia Chapline

Getting here isn’t easy, the mountain road
is narrow a dangerous deer crossing with
hikers and runners training for the Dipsea
oldest foot race in California and on
weekends filled with mountain bikers

This road that I love to drive slowly on
listening to the sound of the mountain
seeing the glorious light raking through
the redwood trees, you smell the sea
just before you round the curve to that
dramatic overview of Stinson Beach
before going back to my childhood in
summer camp where I learned to eat with
my other hand, right, like everyone else
at the crowded long table, as I go down
to the beach to get away from everything else
to clean air clear water and local food

Even on Highway One there are groups of
bikers in their day glo spandex tights
tattooed motorcyclists, leather armored

Some people get sick on the winding roads
my granddaughter thinks about making her art
to take her mind off her stomach, others use
wrist bands to gently press acupressure points
slow driving tourists are another hazard
impatient drivers passing on curves risk collisions

On Saturday nights after the Sand Dollar closes
a new member of the Lagoon Club is initiated
when his car drifts into the Bolinas Lagoon

Some drivers fall onto the ocean rocks
from Highway One or slide off into the trees
from Panoramic Highway
A memorial of rocks and flowers
sits at the place where
several young men coming
down from the 2AM Club
died when their truck careened off the curve
At the surfers’ funeral their ashes were
paddle boarded out to sea, watched
by the weeping community
gathered in the brilliant sun.


see Claudia Chapline's bio at bottom of On My Nightstand




TuPac poem:



Confucius poem:

"No matter how busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading, or surrender yourself to self-chosen ignorance."


















































































































































































































































































































































































































































GALLERY & The STACKS - Back Issues


The concept - Grab a latté, or beverage of your choice, get comfy and let the LITERARY LATTÉ stimulate your intellect and emotions. Enjoy:


But first a word from our alternate sponsor:


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CONTEST WINNER for Summer 2013

Romantic Short Story by Grant Flint:

The Twinkling, Teasing, Loving, Innocent,
Break-your-Heart, Save-your-Soul Eyes Incident


Working this summer at the YMCA Conference Camp at Estes Park, Colorado.  Pay day at last, bought Levis, work shoes and gloves, wildly happy now driving the old pickup truck madly around, bad brakes, delivering wood and ice to new guests, astounding them with my shy exuberance.  Picking up garbage cans by each cabin, roaring out with a full load to the dump, tossing the garbage out -- dead rats, kotexes, this and that…

            Just got back from a 4-hour mountain hike.  I'm in love!

            Beverley.  The girl next door, glorified.  Sparkling eyes.  Biggest smile imaginable.  Those teeth!  She smiles like me.  We are smile twins.  High cheekbones, deep smile lines the same, our chins the same, even our mouths.

            God save us all, I know now what love is.  That smile, those twinkling, teasing, loving, innocent, break-your- heart, save-your-soul eyes!  I adore her.  Would die for her.

            "I love you," I tell her with my gaunt eyes, Nebraska innocence, her face my twin.  Silently with roaring soul, tell her.

            Understand now what love is.  Total, sweet, all-embracing love.

             A miracle -- my dream girl, Beverley, and I take a blanket the day it happens.  Sunday afternoon.  I am ready, borrowed some hair lotion, sticky white cream, to hold down my wild hair.  First time I've ever used hair lotion, but this is a special occasion.  I, of course, will not take this darling girl's virginity, lose my own, but I try the hair lotion.  It works.  My hair is solid-shellacked.  Stiff.  It isn't going anywhere.

            Oh, she is beautiful this day.  We walk into the woods, waiting for God's inspired location, find it, a blessed clearing.  My darling Bev puts the blanket down, takes off her shoes, rolls up her jeans to the knees.  Precious ankles, heavenly toes.  A little flower, dandelion yellow, in her hair.  She sits, smiles at me, opens her Bible, I sit beside her, hear her breathing, know everything about love, the meaning of life, brush against her warm side.

            "Bless us, Lord," she prays aloud. 

            An owl, I hear an owl sound in the distance.  Sunset.  The evening breeze, warm, caressing now, soon to be cool.  Smell of trees, sweet air, God.

            "And please, dear Lord," she says, lovely voice, feminine, warm, kind, dear, "when we go below again, down from the mountain, when this blessed summer is gone, please, dear Lord, help us to stay good, stay this way on the plains, carry thy sweet love with us as we go, your servants, Beverly and Harry..."

            Crickets.  Sound of a frog, the trees around us, distant, close, like a gentle tent of privacy.

            I believe at this moment, I almost believe.  I am nearly moved to tears.

            "And, dear Lord," I break-in, "thank you for all you have done for us, for this wonderful summer, for my dear friend here, Beverley.  Thank you for all your blessed gifts..."

            She looks at me.  She has never heard me pray before.  She has wondered if I am a true believer.

            She looks at me, her eyes impish and yet very serious, too.  The dying sun’s glow is on her face.  Inch by inch our lips come toward each other in slow motion.

            At the last possible moment, she says, "Oh, no!  I mustn't, I mustn't!"  But she snuggles her face against my shoulder and reaches up tenderly to touch my head, and I know with the entire force of my aching soul that we will be joined in one minute, our bodies praising God in holy union.  Transfixed, I feel I will die with emotion as her fingers gently touch the hair on the back of my neck.  She hesitates.  Then moves higher.  Hesitates.  Then pushes in a bit.  Breaks through the hardened goop.

            "Wha --?" she exclaims, jerking away, looking in horror at her now gooped fingers.

            "What is it?!" she demands in utter consternation.  "Uggg!"

            A drowning man reaching for a cork bobbing on the surface, I say: "Let us pray..."I bow my head, knowing she will have to do likewise.   

"Lord," I intone in my most solemn, second-tenor voice, "Lord, we know we are sinners, imperfect in Thy eyes.  But in this beautiful mountain setting, which reminds us of Thy bounteous blessings and wondrous forgiveness --" (At this point I surreptitiously raise my left hand to smooth my hair-do where she has jammed it.)  "-- We would ask that you look down with grace upon thy willing servants, Beverley and me, and help us to forgive one another, even as Thou forgiveth us –

  And I go on and on, sneaking a peek now and then at her to see how she is taking it, which is not too well, kind of like a child in the pew on Sunday morning, who is not in the mood.  Go on and on, trying to find a theme, a way, trying to buy time until I can think how to make all that goop on my hair disappear.

But I don't get much better and am repeating myself, so, eventually, she breaks in and says -- "And we do thank Thee, Lord, for listening to us, only it's getting cold out here, Amen."

One would think that darling girl would throw me over forever after the hair incident.  I fully expected it.  However, the days go on and she is ambivalent.  She sees something in me, perhaps. Without the hair lotion. Some distant promise…


By Grant Flint Grant Flint has been published in Story Quarterly, The Nation, The King’s English, Poetry, Weber, The Courtland Review, The Sun, Slow Trains, Northwind, and 37 other print and online journals. He was nominated for the 2009 Pushcart Prize.  His videos on writing are on You Tube.  His website blog is at





James Joyce revisited in:

"New One”
by Steppenleap [Stephen Leiper]

brownly tied, bluely SWEATERED, NEATLY GIRDED BY LEATHER THONG AND BUCKLED BRASS, DISAPPEARING SLOWLY LIMB BY LIMB INTO A BROWN-GREEN MACKINTOSH, Franklin Peckinpaugh gravitated down through the half-light of the rugswathed stairwell, caromed sharply off the hallway bulkhead, yanked open the glasspanel door, and spewed forth into the middle evening chill of the Upper Westside.
          “Evening, Mrs. Keedy,” Franklin teethed at the first-ranking fishwife of 28 W. 74th. The old woman was making a sharp right turn off the sidewalk with unsacked quart bottles of eggnog in each pink-knuckled hand, moving fast in the cold, her shawl streaming out behind her like a banner. She skewered him on black spits of eyes, withdrew them and attacked the brass doorknob with equal intensity.
          “Grmm,” was what Mrs. Keedy, slowing to open the door, replied to Franklin Peckinpaugh. She nudged the hatch with a woolmatted knee and slipped inside.
          Grmm, indeed. About all you could expect from that one. Hope she chokes on the damned chicken liquor.
          Sniff of air and palm of cheek, feeling the ears rise with force of new blood against the spitcrackling chill. Must start down before eleven. Into the pit before the loud dark iron of elevening bells. Plenty of time yet. I walk in numbness, carrying ice for Grant’s Tomb. Nell might have called. Said she would this aft, but no. Unless when I was out for blades. Likely to be moping about. Says those garden plots outside her window look like graves. What a way to think. Strange one. Night I met her, listening to that who was he Leadbelly yes, singing grunting Mississippi songs. She goes for it. Chain gangs and cotton bolls. Heart full of sadness. The shadow of regret.
          Around the corner down the concrete flight out of the ache. Strangely deserted subway. Where is the world? Standing at the front of the lead car with hands pressed to the glass door to look down the rocking corridor of colored lights. What can I see in my burrow? Rhythms of revolving, bumping, tangenting metals whir and click contrapuntally. Lights appear and are swallowed up again in the inkness. The pipeline drive. Rocking the boat. Shift the soles of both feet back and forth on the gritty deck. Hold ‘er steady, cap’n, there’s a reef off the port bow. Blue sparks and glint of rail. Steel and ink.
          Gleaming porcelain areas jerk brightly by, tile and Manischewitz, tile and Times classifieds, tile and Medaglia d’Oro. This must be where I. No, further on. Next one, I think. Why didn’t she call? Boozed up by now, I suppose. Don’t blame her but what about me? Think I wouldn’t take a drop or two among friends? Tonight of all. Ah! Street number forty and two. Back to the yellow glowing capsule interior. Glad I didn’t sit. Nothing to do except read the ads or the paper. Horrible things these transitads but if they didn’t exist, what then? Look into your neighbor’s eyes. They shift away. No, signor, I am not a priest. I seek not a confession but do so earnestly desire to express my. Do not look away, I. Follow the outline of his head with the toe of your foot. And back the other way. Repeat it. What is she thinking, that sleepy-eyed Puerto Rican? Penny for your thoughts. Penny! Penny won’t get me to thirty-fourth.
          Out through the sliding door, across the black crack that reaches down into unfathomable abysses of Chiclet boxes and chocolate wrappers. Nothing so bare as a sampler box of empty candy wrappers. The time I gave Mary Anne the ribbon bow from a box of those. Yellow, yes. Didn’t she move here or no it was Chicago. Sure. Married by now, no doubt. They always are. This turnstile must have adorned a torture chamber. Come through with half a load in the mob and chop you up like hamburg. Come on up, the sidewalk’s fine. But the descenders look worried. Just concentrating intently, absent-mindedly, on the art of skimming down the steps.
          The emergence. What is it? The running of the bulls? No, the big press. A million geese packed into the square, reeling, honking, sweating. Look at them. Fools, the whole lot of them. Had to come here to watch the ball slide down the pole. Like the end of the world. Got to see. Let me. Is he hurt bad? Will we feel the flames? This one smells like stale spaghetti. Shout and rant. Glo-ry to thuh gnubourne. Holdover from the Commerce of Christmas. Start them in November, grind away at you like grade 6 emery. Maybe some year they’ll forget. No, they’re not asleep at the wheel. When it comes to the Tale of the Till they know what to do. Joy.
          Maximum speed three blocks an hour. This is prepos. Ridicu. Wish the hell Nell had. Gain me nothing. Fool like the rest. Fool. But the snatches of conversations. Snatch that converse.
          “Got to ‘member to buy some blackeyed peas, Jeannie. Can’t start a new year without that. Bad luck. But where’n the devil’m I gonna find any here? Or streaked meat? Never heard of ‘em, probly.”
          A crushed triangle of orangepainted tin, flattened against the black pavement, its mouthpiece wrenched away, lying mute except for a weak metallic reprise when it caroms from high blue heel to low brown toe and back again. Made in Brooklyn, USA.
          “Aw, sure, man, go on up an’ see her. I wanna find out if she’s livin’ in that hotel or workin’ there. I was married to her for six months an’ spent fifty thousand dollars on her. Bought her a new house, furniture, everything. Go on up and have a good one on old J. L. Lang.”
          “New leaf, you say? I know you, Garrison. You’ll go back on your word by tomorrow night, so what’s the use of saying such things?”
          Sadly, darkly groping for the tube. I have seen the multitudes in the streets of Gomorrah. I have felt the breath of the tentacled tongues upon my brow, garbling and gargling in the bad green wine of fetid frivolity. Green glove shove.
          “Ganzy feekins to you too, pristine madonna.”

          Back into the pneumatic. Alterations for you, sir, or credit? No thanks, I’m just looking. Hell of a way to see the new. Groveling in the intestines of a monster.
          Onward and upward, round the corner. Stompin’ grounds. Place I bought the Xmas card. Funny gal she was, all dressed in black. Thought she was Bohunk. Set me straight with wellaimed Manual of Pruning (New Augmented Edition, 1937). Here’s Casey’s. Best slakehouse in walking distance.
          Bartenders’ names good to remember. Do in a pinch. Give you the nod on a lay. But can’t keep them straight. What in His good Number is this one called? Certainly not Casey. None of them ever have the name above the door. Seems the prop. has disappeared. Back to Dublin with a stocking full and no Puerto Ricans creeping up block by block. What’s this one? Mike? Here he comes dipping glasses into God knows what behind the counter. Supposed to wash them. More like developing a photo. Mike’s one of them. Think he’s got a twin. My luck to twist it.
          “I’ll have a bourbon and water, Mike.” He turns and makes the motions, quick and practiced, pivots and coasters the drink. “I’m Jack. Mike’s on days.”
          Good place anyhow, wrong tap-puller or no. Not one of those damned padded cells. Good mansized bar. Feel that solid wood under mackintoshed elbow, smoothrounded, dark, beery. Drink a glass every five minutes, stoned in no time. Like to hit every bar on Broadway. One side of street. One-drink per. Here to the square. Never make it. Might’s well tie one.
          “Jack. . .”

          The door slid back, rectanguling into the slot, issuing the pair of eyes into the chamber. Spinwalling, the room settled slightly into familiarity, then, acknowledging this, proceeded on its mad orbit around the moon. Eyes plunge through to mundane areas for something hollowly cylindrical to receive the blessing. Found midst the Pepperidge Farm and the AllBran. Open-necked in a gown of brown paper, the bottle speaks liltingly to its newfound friend. Rapid transaction. Can’t stay. Gotta go get gulleted. Haahh!
          Home again, home again, jiggedy jog. President and Chairman of the Board of the Back to the Womb Movement. So now what’s there to. Exhausted all possibilities of sober enterprise, long ‘fore I crossed the barrier. Physical changes. Chemistry. From a solid to a liquid in five grand hours. Running down the stairs, splashing all the way. Or one better. Like you to meet Ol’ Frank, presently in a gaseous state, appearing through the courtesy of Prudhomme’s Distillery.
          Refrig droning along. Shake the whole kitchen. Churn the milk if it weren’t homogenized. But now it’s stopped, like an airplane. Pitch headlong into a screaming dive. Down please. Novelties, cosmetics, cirrostrati, cumuli, hellfire and damnation. Going down. The last things. Moment of truth. Speak. Pass the wine.

by Stephen Leiper

originally published in 1958 Extantis literary magazine (San Francisco) Notefrom author -

I have lived in Marin since 1968, including in Mill Valley, Sausalito, Fairfax, and San Anselmo. I currently live at Hamilton in South Novato and am working on a memoir, The Varieties of Odyssean Experience.


by George Ohwell 1984-2014

Winston is running late for his class. It is apparent that what he really wants to do is stay in his HUD HDD (high density\diversity) housing unit and pay his bills, like the new Storm Water Management Fee (aka Rainwater Tax), and Fire Protection Service Fee. Winston is all cozy, next to the EPA approved haze free electric fireplace, smoking a Marin Housing Compliant smokeless cigarette, under his two allotted Federal mandated 57 watt flickering fluorescent mercury light, sipping bio-dynamic de-alc™ Chablis. Like all housing now, his SmartBuilding™ maintains a 100 foot setback from the nearest creek, drainage ditch and mud puddle stocked with GMO saltroutman™.

He feels safe and secure in this blessedly “Second Amendment Free!” state of California. It will soon be “First Amendment Free!” soon, but we aren’t supposed to talk about that yet. Winston appears to rather just hang with Julienne, his assigned LGBTQ roommate, (mostly Q lately) – but nOO, he has to go to class.

Winston Smith leaves unit 4A21, but since he used up his AOCs (Allowable Obesity Credits) by racking up size 12 carbon footprints, the elevator is non-op for him and he walks down the five flights. He would love to catch the new Smart Train but it is still not operational except for the San Rafael Canal District to the Marin County Jail and San Quentin links. In the carport he walks past the bank of SmartMeters, noting that his has the amber light on, warning that his wireless remote controlled voltage will drop to half, once his monthly-allotted usage hits 83%. Other unit dwellers meters were dark already, powerless until the first.

Winston realizes his blue Pious with its factory installed Obama\Biden 2012 bumper sticker has a serious problem. The bumper sticker is partially unglued and dangling. The Pious was designed not to start without the RFID chipped sticker. He doesn’t have time to run back up and replace it with the Obama\Obama 2016 bumper sticker (Made in China - Do Not Remove Tag Under Penalty of Law) he just received from the SEIU. He manages to tape the old one back up, and the Pious powers to life with an indiscernible hum.

He pulls out past Uncle ICLEI’s Organic Food Stamp\Medical Marijuana\Liquor Mart. In front, are the ever-present two groups; one of shaved head young people with an acorn tattoo on the back of their head, and other, housing hanger-oners and homeless. They watch the big flatscreen in the store window (gratis of Media Matters) with ONN showing “The Daily Show” reruns and Martin Bashir Speeches & Interrogations 24\7. Winston remains unaware his “Uncle ICLEI’s Gold Rewards Card” records his purchases with the IRS to better serve his needs.

Winston waits patiently at the first of five stoplight\surveillance controlled intersections, including the two new lights, through his little rural neighborhood of Tam Junction\Manzanita. . He manages to hit every red light even though there is no cross traffic. Thanks to the chemtrail spraying, lifelong fluoridated water and vaccinations, Winston still feels peaceful; with some extra assistance from the Pentagon’s “Brain Initiative” secret PSP (Prescription Modification Program) through Wal-MartGreens which helps citizens with individualized psychotropic formulas. Winston hears a soothing droning noise overhead and looks up to the aluminum-grey blueless sky crisscrossed with long lines of white “clouds.”

Having lived through the 70’s goofiness and the 80’s livin’ large, Winston attempts to focus on how much more freedom everyone has now, freedom to not worry about choices and just be themselves here in the Twenty-teensies. He focuses on how after the Amnesty Bill, the voters, in an 11 million-vote landslide - approved the Wealth Redistribution Amendment, so now he even has a few more bucks in his pocket.   

As Winston passes between the GGNRA Holiday Inn and Fireside Indian Gaming Casino, he knows the Inn's new story poles indicate their intent to comply with FEMA’s safety directive that all wetlands zoned structures must be elevated on RCL-BS (Recycled Chinese Laminate - Bamboo Stilts). Winston recites, “It is for our protection. And to save the saltroutman ™.” Winston paces himself past the CHP Radar Revenue Officers permanently stationed along 101 by Strawberry Village. A new highway sign reads, “Speed Enforced by Drones.” Yes, the UN “Freedomkeeper” drones are always above now - ready to safeguard Approved Citizens in Good Standing. Winston is soon coasting into Corte Madera's NSA field office above the Verizon store for his class.

To be late for his Political Correctness Remedial Training would be, well… incorrect. On one of the video screens, I see Winston carefully backing his Pious into his designated Number 6 slot. Today is 3 November, 2014. I have been keeping an eye on Winston with audio and\or video through his embedded computer camera, Verizon smart phone, Xbox, Windows OS, dash integrated Pious monitoring device and its satellite transparent moonroof. As his PCRT instructor, I sit here before my high-tech surveillance console, monitoring Mr. Smith, according to his needs, as I do all of my comrades in training. All is in order. 

The Dystopian End

by J. Macon King

scary source material available at bottom of page

Additional J. Macon King stories may be found in The Stacks Back Issues (link below)


An alternative ending to Catcher in the Rye, in which something actually happens. Apologies to J.D. Salinger

Hold-on by Lucretia King

As soon as I saw old Phoebe walking behind me, I decided to go somewhere else. The lagoon. In that lagoon there are memories of me growing up walking around that lagoon, that goddamn lagoon always tried to suck me in and drown me. It is not like I was trying to disrupt it. That lagoon just kept on pushing me down until it was midnight and I had to find my way back home in the freezing dark. No one heard me when I snuck in home late, but let me tell you something, did I get an earful of my mother in the morning. She is such a phony, she tries to act like she cares for me, but I really know how she feels about her goddamn son. That is probably why I am stuck here.            

I stopped abruptly. I had almost walked into the middle of the street. Phoebe was by my side, staring back innocently at the Zoo.            

“I thought we are going to the Zoo. We passed it by a few minutes ago. Holden. Where are we going?” Phoebe asked, but she never stopped following me. That really annoyed me now. She trusted me, I felt bad for lying to her about where we were going. That is the problem with these kids now, they think everyone is here to help them; they never ask or suspect a goddamn thing. I didn’t want to stop to tell her, I expected her to follow and she did, even if she is mad at me.            

When we arrived at the lagoon, sitting on top of the stone bridge was a duck. So scrawny it looked like a baby. That sonuvabitch duck just wouldn’t move when old Phoebe ran to it trying to pet it. It just stood there, looking along the lagoon. That duck just needed help to fly. So where are the other birds? Why didn’t it just fly away, like most birds do? Hell if I know, but that bird just seemed to not care that we were so close that we could push it right over that edge. You know what Phoebe does next? She pets it. Well, not really. She pushes it off the edge and Phoebe starts to skip to the other side. I run to save that duck. It is too late; it is just falling, the wind pushing all around like a plane not able to get out of a tailspin. Right before that damn duck hit the ice, it looks up at stares at me. It stares at me!            

I turn to go in the direction Phoebe headed. I needed to face her after all of these years. She is sitting on top of the cement wall. Why did she push the duck? She had no place to disrupt that beautiful picture of that duck. Phoebe never thinks right when it comes to these things. How could she? HOW could she? When I broke my leg she never once cared, she would steal my stuff tempting me to chase after her. I always had to look out for her. She was the baby. She was the baby of the family. When will she learn that things and people have their places? Like that duck, like the snow on the streets and cars, and like kids running not caring. For Christ sake! I slowly headed to Phoebe; my hands are shaking with anger. With each step my temperature boils a little bit more, with each moment my pulse hits my temples a little louder, with each breath my mind becomes foggy with the image of the mother of that god damn baby duck, looking for it.    

“Holden,” she turns around, jumping up on to the wall with all of her weight. I don’t answer; I’m afraid she’s going to fall into the lagoon.

“Phoebe?” I ask, “Where is that duck, Phoebe? What did you do to it?” That image just keeps reeling in my brain burning, seeing those eyes, knowing I could have saved it. That’s my job, to save the innocent. She isn’t one.

“Holden, why does it matter, it is just a stupid duck!”

“Just a stupid duck!?! Phoebe! How can you DARE say that?” Why shouldn’t she learn a lesson, feel how that duck felt when it plummeted to its death. Phoebe is not the little girl she used to be. I feel my arms reaching up. They’re heading to grab her arms.

“Ducks don’t matter! You are acting crazy, Holden,” she exclaims.

Why should she go through what I am going through, why should she suffer like I am? She needs to slip. All Phoebe needs is a little push. One push. That’s all it would take. It was so easy for Phoebe to push that duck. Just a push I think, and with that a scream. Could I kill my sister? She is not my sister. Did I kill my sister? She is no longer a little girl. She is not innocent like that little dove or duck, or whatever it was. The poor duck fell right into the partly frozen lagoon, but where is Phoebe? I thought I was having an epiphany, but now I’m not so sure. I sat down and started bawling.

by Lucretia, age 16


Current Sources for Orwellian tale:

Your Smartphone Is Watching You -

Big Brother: LA police sued over massive data collection gleaned from cameras, Read more:

Holder: Drone strikes have killed four Americans since 2009. Attorney General Eric Holder is not entirely ruling out a scenario under which a drone strike would be ordered against Americans on U.S. soil.

Maryland Rain Tax: Time to own up- Maryland lawmakers created quite a stir earlier this month once they passed the “Impervious Surfaces” tax, or Rain Tax that basically charges residents for rainwater. By Jessica Chasmar-The Washington Times Tuesday, April 23, 2013

NSA partners with Microsoft for Xbox Kinect surveilance:

How NSA access was built into Windows:

RFID chip by feds 2-13:

Why you should care about Pentagon funding of Obama's brain initiative:


GALLERY & The STACKS - Back Issues


Latte' model: Starr

side panel: clip art

all other uncredited photos by J. Macon King

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