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, journalists must stop letting Trump and the GOP leadership get away with straightforward racism and anti-semitic tropes.
Then, on the rest of the menu, though the New Zealand terrorist invoked Donald Trump, he was also inspired by ideas that have circulated for decades on the French far-right; a multi-partisan coalition of the German legislatures is calling for the expulsion of the US ambassador from the country for being too much of a Nazi; and, the US is killing civilians with ‘impunity’ in a secret shadow war in Somalia.
After the break, we move to the Chef’s Table where the Trump administration is holding children as young as nine years old in black site ice box baby gulags, without telling their lawyers; and, the Trump team has lost sixty-three court cases in two years because they're ‘being so nuts,’ while ‘not doing their homework' on the basics of governing.
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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