Free State Observer

PUBLIC NOTICE

State of Emergency

10 Day National Bank Holiday Declared

Starting on June 5, 2008 and lasting through June 15, 2008 all US Citizens, Americans, Foreign Nationals, and Resident Aliens are hereby requested by the authority of We The People of the United States to withdraw all Federal Reserve Bank Notes (U.S. Dollars) from their personal bank for a term no less than ten (10) days. This includes all checking, savings, CDs etc.

Due to the reckless policies of the central bank of the United States, the Federal Reserve, its Chairman and Board of Governors a financial state of emergency exists. Billions of dollars of financial relief afforded to Wall St. because of the sub-prime mortgage market meltdown and the “economic stimulus package” for the American Taxpayer has resulted in hyper-accelerated inflation causing record price indexes for gas, food, energy and the cost of living.

This 10 day bank holiday is designed to strengthen the buying power of the U.S. Dollar by limiting the amount in circulation, therefore reducing inflation. Withdrawing funds reduces their reserves and minimalizes the amount of money the banks can lend, reducing the impact of inflation therefore lowering prices. Please note: Banks can loan out their holdings by a factor of 9. When new funds are deposited, the banks can loan out 9 times the actual deposit.

Americans participating in this national 10 day bank holiday are encouraged, not required, to withhold their federal reserve debt notes (U.S. dollars) outside of banking institutions for as long as possible.

This 10 day bank holiday is also intended to strike the source of the problem by demanding the repealing of the “Federal Reserve Act of 1913″, and likewise demand “lawful money” backed by gold or silver printed by the U.S. Treasury to replace the fiat currency backed by debt printed by the Federal Reserve.

Please note: Banks have limits on cash withdrawals per day to prevent rapid depletion of their cash reserves, stagger withdrawals to achieve desired balances.

Also note: In cases where minimum balances must be maintained individuals must decide to either close their account or maintain the minimum balance to avoid penalties.

This June 5th marks the 75th anniversary of the United States going off the gold standard.
This June 15th marks the 172nd anniversary of the repealing of the charter of the “Bank of the United States” by the 24th Congress.

This 10 day bank holiday is so declared by the authority of
We The People of the United States.

The Free State Observer pledges to participate. Will you?
this june 5th

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You know what really burns my butt?
A flame about three feet high.
— Miss Mona, Best Little Whorehouse in Texas

I have a deep, dark confession to make.

I love Dolly Parton.

I know, I know, this totally clashes with the hip kid persona I have tried (and so utterly failed) to cultivate. But seriously, it does clash with my usual musical preferences, which generally hover in the hard rock, new wave, alternative and hip hop genres. I just can’t help myself; even as a kid, when my father’s country music playing on the radio above his handyman workbench in the garage would send me bolting in disgust, I actually kind of liked “Here You Come Again”. I’m happy to say I’ve become much more open-minded about various genres of popular music than I was as a snot-nosed black-T-shirt-wearing teen, and I’ve even added a few country albums to my CD collection over the years. But Dolly is in a class by herself in my heart. Is it her angelic voice, her irresistible giggle, her outrageous wigs, her Jessica Rabbit figure, her incredible song-writing talent (25 #1 hit singles and counting), her wonderfully down-to-earth attitude and willingness to poke fun at herself, that Smoky Mountain accent that takes me back to my years in Tennessee, the happiest of my childhood? It’s all those things, but I think the thing I like about her most of all is the joy she seems to exude. So when I heard she was coming to Boston, I unclenched my tightwad fist, opened my wallet, and shelled out the bucks for a concert ticket.

Despite the fact that it’s a mere 30 miles away, I rarely venture into Boston. Too much traffic, too little parking, WAY too many socialists. But for Dolly, I left work early, snarfed down dinner as quickly as possible, and made the trek to downtown B-town. I parked in the Boston Common Garage, which stays open all night and is quite cheap by Boston parking standards, which is saying very, very little. The Opera House was a pleasant stroll away on the other side of the Common, so I enjoyed the sunset on a spring day, people walking their dogs, a baseball game in progress. I became aware that I was in the theater district when I suddenly noticed I was surrounded by gay men. I mean, it’s not the Castro, but still, I was surprised. I made it to the Opera House without incident *or* getting lost (don’t worry, I more than made up for it on the way home) and a good 20 minutes early. Some of the Dolly T-shirts they were selling were sorely tempting, but I couldn’t bring my cheapskate self to fork over $40 for one.

The Boston Opera House is quite gorgeous; I sat slack-jawed while admiring the ornate fooferah on every inch of the walls and ceiling. I’ve been to a few concerts that were bi-generational, but this may have been the first one I’ve been to that was truly multi-generational. There were quite a lot of elderly people there. And people my age. And hipsters in their twenties. One guy dressed as a cowboy with a red hat, and a lot of women in evening dresses. I wore something pink and mildly cleavage-baring, in honor of the occasion.

Just my luck, a 70-year-old man going stag had the seat next to me and yes, he wanted to chat. Let’s call him “Spencer” (because that was his name). He lived on Beacon Hill and had walked to the show. I made the mistake of asking if it was considered safe to cross the Common after dark, to which he gallantly replied that he would be pleased to escort me back to my car after the show. I didn’t have the heart to wound his pride by pointing out that a senior citizen only slightly taller than myself wouldn’t offer all that much protection, if it came to that. So he became my date for the evening.

Dolly came onstage promptly at 8:00, “looking better than a body’s got a right to” considering she’s in her freakin’ 60’s. During the course of the evening, she performed several of her biggest hits, including “Here You Come Again”, “Jolene”, “I Will Always Love You” (did you know she wrote that song that made Whitney Houston the diva of the decade?), “9 to 5″, “Islands in the Stream”, and many I was unfamiliar with, including a few off her latest album, Backwoods Barbie. I knew she’s a great songwriter, and knew she defies the laws of physics by managing to play guitar with long, painted nails, but I had no idea she can play about 20 gazillion other instruments, some of which I couldn’t even identify. During the course of one show, she played guitar, banjo, slide guitar, piano, whistle/recorder(?), harpsichord(?), tamborine, and I know I’m forgetting a couple. She was also pretty spry for a 60-something who recently injured her back, prancing about the stage in high heels, and her voice sounds as good as ever, despite the fact that she has been performing in public and making records for over 50 YEARS. She actually sang a song she wrote, and recorded, when she was 10 years old! She also talked a lot about her very large, very close Pentecostal hillbilly family. During the song “Coat of Many Colors”, written about a coat her mother sewed for her out of scraps of cloth because they were too poor to buy one at the store, rumor has it that I may actually have shed a few tears, but of course I categorically deny any such accusations.

There was an intermission, after which Dolly came back in an adorable pink cowgirl outfit with a skirt so tight she could barely sit down to play the piano. Everyone in her band got an opportunity to solo during a medley of some of her favorite songs that spanned the decades of the 50’s, the 60’s, and the 70’s. It kind of boggles the mind to realize that she has been working steadily through every phase of modern popular music. And she has no intention of retiring; in fact, she said her wish is to eventually keel over on stage, mid-song, with a big smile on her face.

After the show, I was stuck with my noble escort (I did draw the line at taking his arm when profferred), who not only kept his word by leading me across the Common (although, considering that I was wearing suede sneakers, and recalling how many dogs had been getting walked earlier, I really wish he hadn’t made me walk through the grass), but escorted me *into* the garage and all the way to my car. And then asked me for a ride. WTF?! I didn’t see how I could say no, though, so I dropped him off at the foot of Beacon Hill, nearly getting creamed by a taxi for my efforts.

Apparently, every *single* highway in the state of Massachusetts is currently being worked on at night. My adventure with Spencer slowed me down just enough that the on-ramp I needed for the highway back to New Hampshire was walled off by cops and hazard cones just as I got to it; I was literally the first car to not get on. Then, my meager navigatory skills spent, I wandered aimlessly from highway to highway, somehow winding up in Saugus (mmmm, Saugus), then Newburyport, which I know is nowhere near where I wanted to be because that’s where my boss lives and she has a crappy commute. All in all, it took me at least 2 hours to get home. As God is my witness, I *will* buy a GPS system this year. I hate Massachusetts.

But I love Dolly.

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[editor's note: the following post may be offensive to hippies, Christians, and people who don't find South Park funny]

A few weeks ago, I received an invitation to attend an organizational meeting of a new “ecovillage” that’s being developed in Barnstead. I didn’t know what an ecovillage is, or where Barnstead is, but I was intrigued enough to find out more.

The idea behind the ecovillage is that a couple of self-described hippies own a large tract of largely undeveloped land. They’re getting on in years and lack the time and energy to develop it themselves. They’re also demoralized by battling, for years, with the planning nazis of their small town, who have wasted a great deal of their time and money by imposing various arbitrary rules on them as far as what kind of home they can live in on their own property, how many friends they can have living with them, etc. But, as you are probably aware, the national real estate market is in the toilet right now, so they don’t even have the option of selling their property. Their adult children don’t share their passion for permaculture and have no interest in giving up their various careers to live in Barnstead. So the property owners are making a last-ditch effort to meet like-minded individuals willing to join them and try to develop an intentional permaculture community on the property.

I had to look up the word permaculture on wikipedia, as I really didn’t know what it meant. After doing so, I liked what I saw. I particularly liked this quote: “Permaculture design principles extend from the position that “The only ethical decision is to take responsibility for our own existence and that of our children” (Mollison, 1990).” Although I was pretty turned off of modern American environmentalism as practiced by mainstream government-funded-and/or-colluding nonprofit organizations, based on my experiences working for the Sierra Club and a nonprofit recycling company, I still believe in the fundamental concepts. Resource conservation makes sense. I like fuzzy woodland creatures. I’ve been known to climb a tree (OK, mostly I just *think* about climbing trees…). I’ve also been giving a lot of thought to what kind of house, if any, I’d like to own. The truth is, a 1-BR apartment holds me, my cats, and everything else I own pretty nicely, and I am beyond lazy when it comes to things like housecleaning and handyman tasks. The thought of me owning a 3+-BR house seems like a recipe for disaster, unless I firmly commit to paying other people to maintain it for me. So the idea of developing a community based on the principles of resource and energy conservation, possibly featuring tiny houses, appeals to me. I also like the idea of having privacy within my own modest home, while still having the option of hobnobbing with other freedom-loving individuals who live within walking distance. Plus, the ability to just pack your house on a trailer and relocate it as necessary has definite appeal in these increasingly fascistic times.

I missed the first ecovillage organizational meeting due to illness. I did make it to the second, but showed up late on account of having to rush from the monthly LPNH meeting. By the time I got there, everyone else had disappeared into the woods for a tour of the property. One woman who had stayed behind told me which direction to head into the woods, and said “When you get to the yellow schoolbus, just keep going.” Ah yes… I was definitely in Hippie Country.

Perhaps I should mention that I spent many years in the socialist triangle of Berkeley/Oakland/San Francisco California. I attended college at Cal Berkeley, spending the first two years living one block up from People’s Park. I know hippies. And, [Cartman mode]GODDAMMIT!!![/Cartman mode] I don’t like ‘em.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I occasionally burn incense. I saw the Dead… twice! (Granted, I fell asleep during one of the shows.) I am most definitely anti-war. I can even tolerate the scent of patchouli.

But many other aspects of hippiedom make my stomach churn. I’ve got nothing against peace, love and happiness per se, but for Christ’s sake, would you get a JOB?! Take a SHOWER?! Plan for your own FUTURE, not to mention that of your children and those two mangy dogs you’ve got living under the overpass with you?! Unconditional love, IMHO, should be limited to pets and babies. Everyone else needs to *earn* love by being a decent, pleasant, productive human being. Obviously, if Jesus “Love Thy Neighbor” Christ and I had to go mano a mano, Jesus would kick my weenie ass in the fans-of-his-philosophy department, but I don’t care. I’m right, [Cartman mode]GODDAMMIT!!![/Cartman mode], and Jesus was just the first of the hippies, mooching free food and crash space off other people with, you know… jobs.

Where the hell was I?? Oh yeah, Barnstead. So, I caught up with the others, but was surprised to discover that, although all the snow had melted down where I live on the southern border of the state, there was still at least a foot of it up there in the woods. Fortunately, Doc Martens are fairly waterproof. We had a nice tour of the property, which is beautiful. We saw an owl head (yes, just the head), which was an odd David Lynchian touch. The owner of the property, who seems like a very nice old guy, told us his history with the property and what his vision for it is. Then we adjourned to a cabin on the property to continue the discussions.

Now, despite the fact that Barnstead is a bit beyond commute distance from my job, and my aforementioned aversion to hippies, I was trying really hard to keep an open mind and to see if I might be able to work with these people. Unfortunately, the owner lost me when he started discussing the mandatory ground-rules that would have to be applied to all who chose to pay to come live on his property. They included the following:
* no alcohol (granted, I don’t drink, but I have friends and relatives who do)
* no drugs (no mention was made of allowance for people who smoke marijuana for medicinal purposes)
* no firearms (I guess intruders will be kept off by the smell of patchouli?)
* no harsh language, because that is violence
* no walking your dog in the woods; it might disturb the wild creatures

Now I’m sorry, but this, to me, does not sound like a recipe for “freedom”. Some of these rules were to be imposed as a form of self-defense against the local police, who would apparently be looking for any excuse to shut the whole thing down. I fully understand that, and would probably be equally eager to protect my assets, liability-wise, if I were the one who owned the property. But still, if I can’t get hammered and scream obscenities at my significant other within the privacy of my own home, and must rely upon my bad breath to scare off intruders, what’s the point? And what the hell did my (theoretical) dog do to anyone?

Maybe I’ll take a second look at Grafton.
– fin –

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