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Friday, August 10, 2012

A Perfect Life

It's been about a year.

Back in the old days, I used to see Jack running around town. That was before I met his mom. Jack never met a human being he didn't like. On some days when he disappeared, his mom and I worried about two things. Whether the dogcatcher had come by for an easy score or more likely, whether Jack had gone downtown to find some people to pet him. It was not at all uncommon to find Jack near the entrance of the grocery store, greeting people as they came out.

Jack was my ex-girlfriend's dog. He was a golden retriever with a giant "mombo" head. I met him in 2006.

The great thing about Jack was that he lived up to all of my expectations. We expect good dogs to hate cats and Jack did. We expect good dogs to love to go for rides and Jack did. We expect good dogs to play fetch and grab toys. Jack did better than that. He loved giant river rocks. Anytime he saw one, he would grab it and cart it around in his breadbox sized mouth. Gawd, I would giggle. He was obsessed with rocks. One time I saw Jack walk past a partially buried river rock, sniff the air, and then suddenly turn and dig up a softball sized rock. He carted it around for 30 minutes. He always had something in his mouth. Jack loved rocks and toys because he associated those items with happy times. With people.

Jack loved to play. In his later years, we would take Jack to the doggie beach. Jack turned into a puppy again, running through the surf and bounding everywhere, stealing every dog's toy. Jack was pretty sneaky. He would buddy up with some other dog- pretending not to care about the other dog's ball- and just as soon as Jack's new buddy would drop his ball, Jack would have it. And Jack was not above stealing two balls at once. He did that often.

One year at Christmas, the neighbor decorated an outdoor evergreen tree with these giant stuffed candy canes. Jack would sneak up to the tree, grab one of those ornaments, and then haul ass back though the trees and snow- to his yard. There he would begin the arduous process of tearing the stuffing out of those things. He shredded so many of those candy canes that I'm not sure there were any left over by the time Christmas rolled around. I always giggle when I think about that drunken neighbor of ours- scratching his head and wondering where the hell his decorations were going.
A couple of years ago, the ex got a black lab puppy. Jack taught that puppy how to behave in that secret, surrogate fashion that all good dogs are pre-programmed with. Jack was probably 11 years old when the new pup arrived. They loved to play and Jack showed great patience with the pup. During the training period, Jack delivered the final lesson one day. I call it the Quigley incident.

Quigley is a very popular, dog walking area east of Moonbat City. One day we had the puppy, maybe 9 months old then, out walking down Quigley Road. My ex had Jack on a leash. The four of us were heading back home when a gal showed up with what I will call- maybe a two year old German Shepherd. A mean dog. When the German Shepherd saw the puppy he let out this nasty growl and immediately went into a stalking mode. Before I could do much of anything, the German Shepherd had pounced on the puppy and pinned him to the ground. The shepherd was trying to hurt the puppy and the puppy was shrieking in pain. I tried to kick the shepherd in the head but missed. Seeing all of this action was too much for Jack who jerked the leash out of the ex's hand and shot into the middle of this mess. Jack bit that German Shepherd very hard- right on the rear leg. By that time, the German Shepherd's owner was yelling at us like it was us that had caused this mess.

People piss me off. I should have bit her on the ass.

We survived the Quigley incident. Jack went back to California with his mom. I used to joke that I missed Jack a lot and her...not so much. She understood my sentiments precisely.

Jack was the happiest dog I have ever seen. Nobody ever expected Jack to build bridges, save lives, or change the world. Somehow Jack was just happy being Jack. He lived in the moment, smelling the breeze, never worried about disappointing anyone. He didn't worry about the past, about money, or about dying. In a lot of respects, Jack had a perfect life. It's been about a year since Jack went to where all of the good dogs go. I miss him.

Checking Kid for Hidden River Rocks

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

This Mystery Solving Is Hard Work

Trestle where they hanged Frank Little, Aug. 1, 1917
Well all three of my battle plans were rendered useless by 11 A.M. Silver Bow County DMV was no help, the Coroner wasn't in, and some of the records that I need are in Deer Lodge.

This picture is a head frame. I trespassed to get the shot. A neighbor watched me the entire time. Probably thought I was going to spray it with gang graffiti or steal some wrought iron. Who knows?

Head Frame, Used To Wrench Men, Equipment, and Rock To The Surface

Perhaps I will just stick to shooting pictures. Forest fires causing a lot of smoke.

This is a sweeping view east of Butte. Note the smoke.
I had breakfast in the M and M Bar. I would give it a 6 on the 1-10 scale. I was kind of underwhelmed. I left there and walked up the street. I did manage to bullshit with a gal in the Hennessey building for about an hour. We had a lot of childhood friends in common as it turns out- so I had to get caught up on some of the scandals and deaths. That sort of thing. When I told her that I was in Butte looking at the Frank Little death she asked who his kids were. Amazing that she has lived in Butte her whole life and did not know who Frank Little was.

Here is a pic of "Pisser's Palace" in Walkerville. Do not go in there. Ever.

I did have a pasty at Joe's Pasty Shop. Then I went up to Walkerville. ^^

Here is the state of the art, Walkerville F.D.

 More photos to bore you people to death with. Go ahead and cancel your subscriptions. See if I care.

 My eyes are still burning. The Berkeley Pit. Up high by the Granite Mountain Fire Memorial.

The Berkeley Pit with it's nasty ass- goose killing, boat motor propeller dissolving water. This cost me two bucks to get in. The gal in the gift shop wouldn't budge. She stopped short of calling me a cheap ass.

Here is a picture of the girl in the Berkeley Pit Gift Shop. She put up with my shit like a professional. I asked her, "What is some lame shit people say when they come in here?" She said they "wanna see the hole in the ground." So yea I think to myself, that's pretty lame. If people said that to me, I would glare at them and in a stern voice I would say, "Get out of here." I bought a really expensive copper bracelet, like 13 bucks. Maybe she will get a commission.

Deals well with smart asses.
I've got one more stop to make. I am going to talk with the Sheriff tomorrow. I think I went to school with him. I came to Butte with high hopes but it looks like I am going to have to do all of my record searching the old fashioned way. By snail mail. I am also glad that I didn't take Elvis up here. Inhaling smoke at 80 MPH just doesn't sound like that much fun to me. So anyway, I'm gonna get the hell out of here tonight. The guy in the room next to me is playing a harmonica.

The Mystery Of Frank Little's Death Was Never a Mystery in Butte

The problem with solving a 95 year old murder is that it was solved days after it happened. The real and subsequent problem, was that nobody prosecuted it. More on that in a bit.

I made the trip from Boise, from the Broadway Exit to the Excelsior Exit in Butte, Mt., in 5 hours and 50 minutes. On a heavily congested day, with road destruction and one stop, that is flat hauling ass. I have the trip at 475 miles.

I have always kind of viewed extremely rural speed limits as...suggestions. I will say this. The Elantra will go 118 MPH and no more. That bit of highway butchery was conducted in Montana. Upon arrival in Butte, I spent 2 hours in the Butte Archives and 3 hours in the Butte Library. Then I ordered two "John's Pork Chop Sandwiches" and I ate them both.

Tomorrow I will eat Pasties. At Joe's Pasty Shop. 

Butte is my childhood home. I come here often.  It is historic, fascinating, and you will never see another city like it. In your life, anywhere. It is one of a kind.  Giant black iron head frames dot the hill. Head frames with giant motors and cables were used to hoist men and rock- in and out of underground tunnels. There were hundreds of underground mines which were eventually abandoned for the Berkeley Pit. The pit is a particularly nasty gash and a monument to corporate decimation when left unchecked.  Now Butte is the number one Superfund site in the U.S. The capitalists raped this place. They left Butte for dead.

I learned something by the age of 9- that most people don't learn their entire lives. That corporations are greedy and ruthless. The Anaconda Company, which bought essentially all the mine holdings from the three Butte Copper Kings around 1900, was one of the most ruthless and murderous companies that ever existed. They owned all of the politicians in the state, all of the newspapers, and most of the cops. They employed spies and Pinkerton detectives. And in 1917, with the price of copper going through the roof, they weren't about to sit idly by while workers walked out on strike.

So after the great Granite Mountain/Speculator Mine disaster in June of 1917 which killed 168 miners...Frank Little came to town the following month. Frank Little was a union organizer for the International Workers of the World or the "wobblies." Frank was a fearless little bastard who had been tossed in jail numerous times, beat up, and kicked out of gawd knows how many towns. He never engaged in anything illegal that I have ever found. Little was very effective and direct- he spoke a number of times at union meetings during the last two weeks of his life.

And of course the great satan, the Anaconda Company had spies. Listening. They admitted that much. 

And on Aug 1, at 0300 in the morning- six masked gunmen showed up at Frank's boarding house. They kidnapped him, dragged him behind their car until his kneecaps were ground off, and lynched him.

It wasn't like the people of Butte didn't know who killed Little. They did. But in the lawless atmosphere of Butte, with it's corrupt cops and 21 unsolved homicides that year, they opted not to open their mouths. Most folks knew that at least one of the murderers was a cop, even though he was suspended at the time.

So that's why I am here. I know precisely where the boarding house is, I've been to the train trestle, and I have visited a couple of other notorious locations. I've got a few things I want to look at- new things. I am after three pieces of evidence or "holy grails" that I believe exist but that nobody has found.

Maybe I'll get lucky or maybe not. I wouldn't be the first person who's luck has run out in Butte. Not by a long shot.


Sunday, August 5, 2012

Presidential Dishonesty

I am not sure that I have ever seen more dishonesty from a President in all of my life. That includes Nixon.

Now even his former Press Secretary is on national TV calling for him to release his college transcripts. Why does he hide everything?

Because he has plenty to hide. He is also a coward. See adjoining blog. I will attach one other little piece of extreme BS from Obama here. In 2009, the most dishonest President ever- vowed to cut the deficit in half. What happened? The exact opposite.