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, the searing glare of public outrage has caused the Trump administration to punt on deporting legal immigrant kids with rare and life-threatening diseases to their deaths, for now.
Then, on the rest of the menu, Native votes went missing in North Carolina in the last election, but tribal leaders vow that won’t happen again in the do-over next week; the NRA is angry that in a free market, sometimes people choose not to arm mass shooters; and, Mitch McConnell sells 'Cocaine Mitch' T-shirts and calls himself the 'Grim Reaper,' but he thinks the nickname 'Moscow Mitch' goes too far.
After the break, we move to the Chef’s Table where a disgusting truth is hiding behind Texas Republicans’ particularly dumb response to mass shootings; and, Churchill's grandson is being expelled from the Conservative Party after defying Boris Johnson, and he’s not the only one.
All that and more, on West Coast Cookbook & Speakeasy with Chef de Cuisine Justice Putnam.
The West Coast Cookbook & Speakeasy Podcast Archive
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(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!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Show Music for West Coast Cookbook & Speakeasy is by Frances Livings!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor Justice Putnam.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“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”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rest in Peace Aaron Swartz
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~