West Coast Cookbook & Speakeasy is Now Open! 8am-9am PT/ 11am-Noon ET for our especially special Daily Specials, Smothered Benedict Wednesdays!
Starting off in the Bistro Cafe, Trump's hatred gets outed every time he is in conflict with a professional woman, and Lisa Page has had enough.
Then, on the rest of the menu, a GOP candidate for Governor falsely claimed immigrants attacked 'tens of thousands' of kids in his state; a GOP congressman is facing voter fraud and perjury allegations for listing a UPS store as his residence; and the House voted to block Trump's attack on military families living abroad.
After the break, we move to the Chef’s Table where a surprise drop in coal use in the United States and Europe has helped to slow the growth of global carbon dioxide emissions this year; and, Russia has accused Washington of deliberately delaying the issuing of visas for Russian officials traveling to the US.
All that and more, on West Coast Cookbook & Speakeasy with Chef de Cuisine Justice Putnam.
The West Coast Cookbook & Speakeasy Podcast Archive
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(Be sure to check thenekkidtruth's diary, Pump NetrootsRadio Throughout Your Entire House and enjoy Netroots Radio in all of it's high fidelity glory!)
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Show Music for West Coast Cookbook & Speakeasy is by Frances Livings!
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Don't forget to tune in to The Justice Department: Musique sans Frontieres, Sundays 8pm to 9pm Pacific.
Special Agent DJ Justice; Radio Host and Program Director for Netroots Radio mans the dials, spins the discs, warbles the woofers, puts a slip in your hip and a trip to your hop.
You can listen here to The Justice Department: Musique sans Frontieres PodCast.
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Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor Justice Putnam.
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“Do you smell that?” she asked, as we drove through Reims, past the headquarters of the National Front, on our way to La Tranche sur Mer.
“I don’t know,” I said flatly, “what is it?”
“It smells like… ” she sniffed in a haughty, Parisian disdain, “it smells like, fascism.”
I knew then I was in love with her. I knew it truly.
– Justice Putnam
“My Little French Honeymoon”
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Question: Who is your audience? What are you here for?
Answer: Tribal Alliances, Heart-felt Convictions, Passionate Reason, Random Abandon, Sustainable Civility and a kiss; to comfort the sad and the mad Ones; the Ones roaming the International section of the American Supermarket at night; or roaming the neglected streets looking for an angry malaprop to sink their teeth into; the Ones who seek without seeking and learn as much as they teach; the Ones who embrace and kiss and embrace again; the Ones who sing the song of the city and the ballads of the forest; the Ones who chant the rhythm of the sea and hum the melody of the desert; the Ones who sing the prayer of Her name and Her name is the World. Yes, those are the Ones. -- JP
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The memory of sun, it is what they subsist upon
down where the jaws snap blindly
at whatever passes, where drifter is a meaningless term
I have some explaining to do — 5 o’clock
meant I would speculate
about artichokes (Greek) and the unfarmed mackerel.
Anyway, the men would present us with a bed of carrot
and potatoes + 1 cup of broth.
Our husbandry in sharp mustard
suit, laden with trial pieces for the fondue. I would prefer
not to. I had such friends —
a long time faring all through the West
with my filth and a bouquet of cutlery
where I had put it: by me.
And yet expansive, the things made by the things
I made. And a supervisor hovering behind me. The heaviness
of being.
I am the Name, Jehovah called from the bush. I had visions
of pigeons. And I replied:
Here I am to be called Ishmael and beget.
— Ricardo Alberto Maldonado
“Morning is Morning”
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Give me a church
made entirely of salt.
Let the walls hiss
and smoke when
I return to shore.
I ask for the grace
of a new freckle
on my cheek, the lift
of blue and my mother’s
soapy skin to greet me.
Hide me in a room
with no windows.
Never let me see
the dolphins leaping
into commas
for this water-prayer
rising like a host
of sky lanterns into
the inky evening.
Let them hang
in the sky until
they vanish at the edge
of the constellations —
the heroes and animals
too busy and bright to notice.
— Aimee Nezhukumatathil
“Sea Church”
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Rest in Peace Aaron Swartz
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